Bread and butter.
But wait - that’s not as dull as it sounds. When I was younger my mum would quite often put bread on to bake in the evening so it would be ready for the next day. I’d be drifting off to sleep when the smell of baking bread would tantalise my nostrils…
Cut off a hunk of still warm bread and smother it with butter.
The demolished bread would be greeted in the morning with suspicious looks…
If you had to have a fragment of poetry tattooed on your body, what would it be?
Oh my! Hmm…
I am torn between Tennyson’s ‘What is it all but a trouble of ants, in the gleam of a million million of suns?’ and Tolkien’s ‘Not all those who wander are lost’
Tell us a joke.
Where was Marx buried?
We give up.
On a communist plot.