I was in a boozer in the Aldgate area the other day which holds regular sausage tastings. This consists of setting out a few bowls containing slivers of posh bangers on the bar counter, with a label describing the contents of each bowl. I sampled a selection, and jolly fine they were. My enjoyment of the experience was slightly marred by the persistent nagging thought at the back of my mind, wondering whether "sausage tasting" might be homosexualist slang for some unspeakable activity that goes on at gay parties and might indeed frighten any horses present.
I hate it when you get stuck in that sort of mental groove. Like the several years I spent walking past a particular parked car each day on my way to the station and thinking that Flat Panda
was a bloody strange name for a car. (Read those words carefully, just as I didn't
think to read the name on the back of the car carefully.)