Pasty tea and toast, will you?
Mr Grigg had a bad night last night. He was tossing and turning as if he were on a spit. This morning, at breakfast, he told me he'd been having a nightmare. 'This is going to sound really weird...' he said, as I slurped my tea. 'But I dreamed I had a Cornish pasty stuck up my bottom.' There was an interlude while he mopped up the PG Tips I spat all over him. 'Do you want me to tell you more?' he said. 'Or do you want to finish your Weetabix?' I needed to know what happened next. Once the Weetabix was safely down my gullet, he said: 'Well, I went to the doctor's, and I was in this kind of medical centre common room and there were lots of other doctors there. My doctor saw me and asked me what was wrong. I was really embarrassed and I whispered to him about the pasty. "Oh," the doctor said, in a loud voice, "I've had one of those up my own bottom for the past 18 months". At this point, I was trying to get the jam out of...