The allure of a forbidden pie - Kevin Page

Kevin Page bites off more than he can chew after he wins the pie battle.

So, I’m walking down the road the other day and I come across a sign advertising a pie.

Ordinarily, this would be of little interest to me.

Don’t get me wrong, I still love the odd pie now and again but the days of ploughing through a potato top or mince and cheese on a daily basis on the way to some job or another are long gone. Mainly because I’ve won the Battle of the Bulge. Again.

I’ll still grab the coffee at BP Wild Bean of course – and occasionally I might sneak a little sausage roll – but the humble meat pie is no longer required eating for Yours Truly.

Or at least that’s what I thought.

As I say, I’m walking down this very quiet road where I am in the deep south at present and I come across a small general store.

It’s your typical country establishment.

There are a few post boxes on the side wall. A variety of hand-printed adverts on a board in the window advising services such as gorse spraying and yoga classes - not at the same time one would presume – and a solitary petrol pump.

And out front amidst the deathly quiet of the day, there’s this standalone sign advertising a local pie. And it’s speaking to me.

Now I don’t know whether it’s the picture of a golden pastried pie with rich gravy oozing from a tempting cavity or the hint of succulent morsels of steak within that’s got my heart racing. But racing it is.

I’m also a bit lost in space as I stare longingly at the stunning advertisement.

Thankfully I’m with George The Three-Legged Dog who is reclining in his dog pushchair and the high-pitched voice of an elderly lady exiting the store jolts me back to reality.

“Oh, how lovely,” she says, coming over to pat the dog.

My mind still on the pie, I find myself uttering “isn’t it?” in response before realising I probably sounded like a weirdo. Thankfully she didn’t quite hear what I’d said and I was able to fudge it with a follow-up explanation of how George ended up with just three legs.

Our interaction lasted barely five minutes before I continued on my merry way back to Mrs P. But the picture of that pie remained etched in my mind.

Inevitably, before long I had a taste in my mouth to go with the picture and that, in turn, developed into a craving.

An hour later I had a full-blooded need for a pie fix.

Now, at times such as these, I rely on the sensibilities of Mrs P to talk me back from the edge of the cliff. So to speak.

And so we went through the usual series of questions.

Did I really want one or was it just an old habit rearing its ugly head? Did I really need one seeing as they generally consisted of bits of this and that not on my approved list? How about a bit of raw carrot and some nuts and seeds instead? (I’ll let you decide what I said to that one.)

If you’ve been in a weight battle yourself, you’ll know what I mean. In a nutshell, I was being told there are other healthier ways and things to eat. Very much along the same lines as a multitude of doctors have told me over the years.

I think the all-encompassing phrase to describe such recommendations is “stuck record” - if you get my drift.

I spent the next day or so trying to get this damn pie out of my mind but as I was literally in the middle of this one-store town I had to walk past the blasted sign every day as George and I went about our perambulations.

Back at home base, aka our caravan, Mrs P was also coming under some pressure to secure me the sumptuous delicacy in question.

I should quickly point out that in our house Mrs P handles things on the financial front. It has worked well for us for a number of years and I don’t go without.

It’s just that sometimes I have to fill out forms – in triplicate – and go before a judge to swear any funds I get will be spent responsibly and not on items that will increase my waistline or put my health and existence on the planet in jeopardy.

I get around this by discussing the merits of each prospective purchase with My Beloved.

At least that’s what I reckon I do. She says I sulk until, sometimes, she gives in. Ahem.

Either way, after three days of discussion/sulking and walking past the pie sign – which by that stage I swear was whispering sweet nothings to me - one of us capitulated.

You may have heard the whoop of delight from within our caravan as Mrs P returned from a stroll around the village with a brown paper bag and a smile.

I’m thinking I must have been a good boy – or a good sulker – because she went and bought me one of these special pies.

As she handed over the warm bag, she said one pie wasn’t going to kill me and even though this pie cost $7 (yep, you read that right. Bring back Georgie Pie I say) our budget could stand it.

Something told me at that price it might be a fair while before I got another one so I might as well enjoy it while I could.

And so, a bare minute after the handover, I found myself sitting on a bench in a quiet corner of the garden in the place where we are parked up, carefully removing the golden pastry from its wrapper.

The pie looked like Angelina Jolie.

Extremely attractive with an appearance that hinted at mystery and mischief in equal measure. Take one bite and I knew I’d have to go back for more.

And I’m thinking right now I might be the first, and quite possibly only, writer ever to compare the award-winning actor with a meat pie. Sorry Angelina.

So I’m sitting there with this pie. Anticipation bubbling through every nerve ending. And then I take a bite.

Oh my God.

For a fleeting second, there was an absolute taste sensation. Then it was replaced by another sensation. A burning one.

It was hot. Bloody hot, to be honest.

If you’ve had a pie and you’ve bitten off more than you can chew – literally – you’ll know what I mean.

You have practically half a second to make a decision.

Do you commit to the swallow and burn your digestive tract all the way down to your stomach or do you deposit the offending morsel of molten volcano in your napkin? Or, if you are without said napkin, do you spit the thing out as quickly as possible?

I have to say I dithered over my decision too long.

In my defence, it was hard to let Angelina go.

I’d wanted her for such a long time. And when the moment finally arrived, I committed wholeheartedly to the relationship. But she was just too hot.

What is it they say? If you love someone set them free. And that’s what I did to Angelina. In a corner of the garden. Under a rosebush.

I still bear the scars of our break-up. I think it may take a while to heal this lump in my throat.

Then of course there was the financial cost.

Luckily I have a good financial adviser in Mrs P.

She’s told me I can forget about pies for a while now.

It’s going to be raw carrot, nuts and seeds from now on.