The UK is experiencing something of a biscuit crisis at the moment. Following the recent floods that managed to put the dark satanic wafer mills and great Northern digestive kilns out of action, humanitarian biscuit drops are apparently being flown in by UNICEF to the affected areas. Thankfully, my local Burtons biscuit factory – a place you smell well before you see it, (and a delicious smell it is too) – escaped the rising waters, so my own supplies of Wagon Wheels and Jammie Dodgers are unaffected, (and I’m more than happy to pass some black market supplies your way, at a huge premium! – http://su5s74iqz3wqoplgu.onion/).
Whilst we’re on the subject of biscuits, I used to own a dog who simply couldn’t resist custard creams – which has nothing at all to do with the above, or indeed any relevance to today’s post – I merely mention it by way of something we bloggers like to call ‘full disclosure’, because it makes us feel important and professional.
And, speaking of being professional, I’ve always thought that if I couldn’t make it as a serial killer, I’d always fancied giving forensic pathology a bash – entirely based, of course, on my fascination with glossy American crime dramas… I can see it now, ‘CSI: South Wales & the Valleys’!
Confectionery, dogs and medical examiners, we got there in the end, (although, the dog is irrelevant). It’s freaky story time!
“Everything is a self-portrait. A diary. Your whole drug history’s in a strand of your hair. Your fingernails. The forensic details. The lining of your stomach is a document. The calluses on your hand tell all your secrets. Your teeth give you away. Your accent. The wrinkles around your mouth and eyes. Everything you do shows your hand.”