I remember it like yesterday. My mother, father and myself were tucking into our breakfast one bright, sunny Sunday morning. It was the full platter; eggs, beans, toast, mushrooms, hash browns, tea and - of course - rashers of bacon and plump, succulent sausages. As I was dipping a sausage into the runny yolk of my fried egg there was a knock at the door.
My mother exclaimed “Who could it be at this time of day? It better not be Mr. MacGuire about the poplars again. I’ve told him time and again that the council says it’s fine.”
My father said nothing, just dabbed at his mouth with a piece of kitchen roll and got up to answer the door. My mother and I craned our heads to see who it was. We sat agape when father finally opened the door.
It was pig, dressed in a suit, standing on it’s hind legs, about 5 foot tall.
My father looked at the pig for a second and said,
“Hello, what can I do for you?”
The pig grunted, as if it were clearing it’s throat and then began to speak;
“Hello, Mr. Perry,” it said. I’ll never forget it’s voice; strangled, slightly whiny and occasionally grunty but understandable nevertheless.
“Our calculations indicate that you have just now eaten your own body weight in pig products.”
My father laughed,
“But Mr. Pig, I’ve only had a sausage and a couple of rashers of bacon this morning!”
The pig shook it’s pink head.
“Mr. Perry, you misunderstand me, not just this morning but over the whole course of your life it’s just those rashers and the sausage pushed you over the edge I can show you our records if you wish.”
My father nodded. The pig took out a ream of paper from the inside of his suit jackets using one trotter and with the other put on a tiny pair of spectacles, pince-nez I believe, the type you don’t see any more. The pig began to read,
“Mr. Sebastian Perry, age 36, weight 196 pounds.”
The pig began to then read out a list of dates and weights of pork products that my father had eaten, starting from just before his first birthday and continuing up to today.
“January 13th 1963 5.30 pm, one gammon steak, weight 5 and 1 quarter oz., January 16th…” The pig said, only stopping occasionally to grunt. As the pig read from his list I considered that we had indeed been eating a lot of pork and ham and bacon and the like recently and that my father did like to eat a lot. My mother said nothing during this time, just slightly raised her eyebrows as she listened.
“Ok,” my father said when the pig finally finished reading the list.
“Now, you know, Mr. Perry, that we pigs are a fair species. We will allow you to eat your own body weight in us - we are after all delicious - but we request then that we then eat you, in the spirit of fairness after all.”
My father nodded.
“I’ll get my coat then,” he sighed.
He went to the coat rack and put on his beige rain mac and his shoes, before coming over to kiss my mother and ruffle my hair. My mother just shook her head slightly. My father then went to the font door, carefully shut it and walked off with the pig. We could see them walking down the lane through the front window.
That was the last I ever saw of my father. After that we only ate pork sparingly, on special occasions, birthdays and the like, but I have to admit that as I’ve got older I’ve started eating a little more. As the pig said, they are indeed delicious. In fact it was this ham sandwich I’m having now that got me thinking of that day.
Sorry, will you excuse me, I think that was a knock at the door…
