When you have been a top-selling rock and rolling person in a number one popperoony banjo band with a couple of wild and crazy meerkats, you kind of lose touch with reality. Trust me, I've been there. Oh yes, I've known the glitz and the glamour of life in the fast lane, even if it was only for just shy of twenty-four hours. I was surrounded by yes-men, my every whim was catered for, and gradually my brain dribbled out of my ears as I came to believe my own myth. I'd lost my direction. I'd abandoned my purpose. I didn't know who I was anymore!
Specifically, I had completely forgotten that I had set out to track down my giant sandwich, which had grown to a horrifyingly massive size, had lumbered off on its own, and had last been heard of enjoying a relaxing holiday in the Lake District. You see, normal, everyday stuff like that - you just become completely cocooned from reality. So when I saw my sandwich whooshing past me on an open-topped bus, it all came flooding back: the anguish, the anger, the crippling sense of loss and the hunger. Yes, especially the hunger.
But now I was back on the trail. I hailed a taxi. "Follow that bus!" I cried. "What bus?" said the taxi man. He had a point - by this time the bus had gone. I told him that I was very sorry for bothering him, but by that time the taxi man had gone as well. Luckily, I know a little bit about buses. I can track them by their spore. So I got down on my hands and knees, got my nose right down in it and before long I was hot on the trail.