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Unfortunately, the Subway virus spread across to these shores a few years ago. I thought I'd give them a chance.
Fresh-bread sandwiches prepared right before your eyes, too good to be true I thought.
I ordered a foot-long BLT and licked my lips in anticipation.
The servant seemed well trained in the art of slicing a foot long baguette I thought, as she swiftly bisected the fresh foot-long roll. Next came the L, or lettuce as I like to call it. Never before had I seen such finely sliced strips of this stalwart of the good old British diet. One, two, three strips, carefully arranged on the outside edge of the fresh foot-long roll.
I never really cared much for lettuce anyway, so I let it pass.
Then came the B, or bacon to give it it's Sunday name.
Two of the thinnest, crispiest, any-longer-under-the-heat-lamp-they-would-die-of-malignant-melanoma sad excuses for food ever to enter my field of vision.
"Is that it?" I asked, already knowing that my hunger would be better dealt with elsewhere.
"You can have an extra slice, but it will be 50 pence extra." came the reply.
As I made my retreat, to good old Greasy Joe's, the servants voice became just another noise in the bustle of the midday inner city rush.
"Sir, here is your sandwich... sir... your... sand... wich......
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