Ridiculously unlikely suspects (A guest blog)

Technically I don't have permission (yet) to re-print this email sent to me by Chris Wyman, but I have promised him a new container of lo mein if he has an issue with it. Actually, I'll probably end up buying him some Chinese noodles even if he doesn't have an issue with it. In any case, here's a fun story written by a man with self-proclaimed delicate and ladylike toes.

When I got home on Friday, I noticed that something in my kitchen smelled kind of funky. My roommate Tom has been off visiting relatives for a few weeks, and when left to my own devices I try to minimize the presence of perishable items in the apartment... so I was a little confused. I'd eaten Chinese take-out a few nights earlier, though, so maybe some decomposing lo mein was stuck to the bottom of one of the cartons and stinking up the garbage? I figured taking out the trash would get rid of the odor, and promptly did so.

The next morning, I meandered into the kitchen to discover that the smell was not only still present, but noticeably worse. A quick visual search of the fridge, cupboards, microwave, and stove revealed no suspects -- everything in sight was clean, non-perishable, or sealed in an airtight container, and no lingering remnants appeared to be stuck in the nooks and crannies. Naturally, I switched to following my nose, and carefully sniffed everything present, moving from likely suspects (like the drain in the kitchen sink and a pair of running shoes I'd left next to the radiator to dry) to ridiculously unlikely suspects that I felt the need to check "just in case" (like the paper-towel dispenser and a box of Cheerios).

Eventually, my nose reached the toaster -- or, more specifically, Tom's toaster. I do not own a toaster, nor had I ever used Tom's toaster. I'm not sure if I even know how to make toast. Like most normal people (or so I assume), if I want toast, I go to a restaurant. Moreover, this was a fairly new appliance -- Tom had received it as a christmas present, if memory serves. (I'm not sure how this fact entered into my reasoning over why the toaster couldn't possibly be the source of the bad smell... I guess I assumed that young toasters are less likely to "go bad," or that enough time hadn't passed for the toaster to have something rot-worthy entered into it?)

Well, in any event, I was wrong, because after one investigative sniff of the air around the toaster, I nearly fell over. Good LORD. There's only one thing in the universe that produces the ripe, charnel-tinted vapors that I had just inhaled, and that is our good, old-fashioned friend DEATH. Although no visual evidence could be produced to support my theory, it was clear to me that someone or something had crawled into Tom's toaster to die, and had done a pretty good job of it.

Since Tom is, like I said, on holiday, I decided to give his toaster a fair trial before executing it. Taking it apart to fish out the source of the odor was clearly out of the question, since this would involve occupying the same physical space as the toaster (and thus also its intolerable) smell for several minutes. Instead, I put a plastic bag over my hand, picked up the toaster, and ran outside, depositing the appliance under a lilac bush. Upon returning to the kitchen, the overall smell was worse, as if I had disturbed it, and it had become enraged -- but I was not deterred. The trial would continue.

The next morning, I confidently entered the kitchen and inhaled deeply. It smelled of dish soap, which is -- in fact -- one of several dozen acceptable smells for a kitchen to have, so I was pleased... but also saddened over what I knew had to happen next. I quickly found another two plastic bags for my hands (no sense in wasting a perfectly good pair of gloves, right?) and marched out to the lilac bush.

The cartoon version of events playing in my head expected the lilac to have wilted and browned over night from the presence of its new neighbor, but this was thankfully not the case. The toaster was still there, though, and it was attracting the interest of about a half-dozen flies. I don't remember what happened next, probably because I had resolved not to breathe once I had left the kitchen and was running out of oxygen, but I'm pretty sure it involved our apartment building's dumpster. When I came to my senses, I was back in the kitchen, searching desperately for a scented candle.

I learned many years ago (from Sesame Street, I think) that toasters, like ice cream cones and telephones, are not alive, and thus do not die. Also, I learned about two weeks ago that our apartment building has mice. So, naturally, I am operating under the impression that we are now short a toaster AND a mouse. Tom has yet to return from his vacation, but I have a feeling that when he returns, this whole story will end up costing me a trip to Target and about forty bucks. It will be money well spent, though, because I may be able to use this experience as evidence that we probably need to get a cat.

**How many pastries is one too many?

I am sitting in a huge glass-and-metal foyer outside the office of a very important man. There are plasma screens everywhere and busy people rushing around, shaking their heads, studying pieces of paper. I sit quietly with a cup of tea and a croissant.
“This is very different from my office,” I think, to myself. “In my office there is just me and some unopened mail.”
I bite into my croissant and notice a homeless man outside. He is shuffling around, looking at his feet, and glances inside. I stop chewing. It feels rude.
“Danny?”
I look up. It is the important man’s assistant, who has come to collect me.
“Imagine having an assistant!” I think, as we walk through the building together. “You’d be able to get all sorts of assistance with things. You could say, ‘Quick! I need some assistance!’ and be guaranteed to receive it. I bet they never have any unopened mail lying around the place.”
In every office we pass, there are more important people, being important, and being assisted by their assistants. I am jealous. Finally we arrive at the office of the important man I’m here to meet.
“Please do take a seat,” says the assistant. “He’ll be here in just a second. And help yourself to a pastry!”
She says this with joy in her voice and indicates a plate of them. She hovers by the door, waiting for me to take one, but I’ve just finished mine and I don’t really feel like another. She looks disappointed.
“I’ll have one in a moment,” I promise, but the door has closed.
I stare at the pastries in silence. The door opens and in strides the important man.
“Danny!” he says, and we shake hands. “Have you had a pastry yet?”
“I haven’t!” I say. “I just finished one of my own.”
“Oh,” says the man. “Well, have another!”
“I’m fine,” I say, patting my tummy and making a satisfied face, to show that I am satisfied, and that I have a tummy.
“They’re very good pastries,” says the man, raising his eyebrows and pushing the plate slightly towards me. “Freshly made. Bought especially for this meeting!”
“Please don’t let me stop you,” I say, generously. “Do please feel free to eat one yourself!”
“Well, you first,” he says. “I had quite a big breakfast!”
“Well, maybe I’ll have one when you have one!” I say.
We are both being very jolly about things but it is clear that there is a certain tension growing. This is becoming some kind of pastry-off.
“Come on,” he says, picking up the plate. “I insist.”
“I really couldn’t,” I say, quite firmly.
There is an awkward moment. Suddenly, the important man’s voice lowers. His eyes dart nervously towards the door.
“We’ve got to eat a pastry,” he says.
“We’ve got to. She went out to get these this morning. She went to a lot of trouble.”
I suddenly realise the seriousness of the situation. If we don’t eat one, the important man will get into trouble. Hey, I might too!
“But I just had a croissant,” I whisper. “Downstairs! Moments before coming up! I think she even saw me!”
“I had a full English,” he says, desperately. “I’ll be lucky if I can fit a coffee in. Please!”
Suddenly, by the frosted-glass door, we hear the assistant, shuffling about. We both fall silent. The important man puts his hand out, ready to grab a pastry if she walks in. It is absolutely terrifying. It’s like that bit out of Jurassic Park. We can see her shape through the glass. We hold our breath. For a horrible moment, it looks like she’s reaching for the door handle, but then a phone rings and she stalks away. We breathe out.
“I might have to hide some in my desk,” says the important man. He suddenly seems a little less important than before.
“But we’re grown men!” I want to shout. “Grown men shouldn’t need to hide pastries in a desk!” But I don’t. Instead, scared, I say, “Good idea,” and decide to help him.
He stands and grabs two small pastries and tip-toes over to the desk, never taking his eyes off the door. While he does that, I wrap a croissant in some tissue and pop it in my bag, then do the same with a pain au chocolat. We break it in two to make it look like it’s been somehow devoured.
“Hey,” I say, “turn the plate slightly to make it look like it’s been constanty to-ing and fro-ing between us.”
“Yes! Good!” says the important man. “How about crumbs?”
Silently, we sprinkle crumbs over the table and on two plates. The important man scrunches up a napkin and tosses it on the floor. I carefully place a flake of pastry next to it, and then two more. We look around us.
“Perfect,” we say.
We have our meeting. When it’s over, we flinch as his assistant strides in. She takes in the scene. Her face falls. It is one of devastation. It looks like we’ve been throwing foodstuffs at each other for an hour. She scans the room, trying to work out where her huge number of pastries have gone. All that remains is one small piece of Eccles cake. The man and myself look at each other, guiltily. We shake hands and say goodbye.
“I don’t think I want an assistant,” I think, as I leave. “It is too much like having a boss.”
I offer my croissant to the homeless man outside. He declines.

**Unleash your inner pyjama-wearer

I am embarrassed because my wife has caught me. “What are you doing?” she says, moments after walking into the bedroom. She looks horrified. I had hoped she wouldn’t notice, that perhaps I could get away with this.
“I can explain!” I yell, desperately, but it is too late. She has seen me. She takes her wide eyes and walks into the bathroom, possibly to sit down and shake a bit.
I am wearing little pyjamas.
I didn’t mean to. It just happened.
I’d just returned from a few weeks away on the other side of the world, working. It had been a tough routine of constant flights, drab and dusty hotels, punishing early mornings and very late nights. Of long car journeys and bad fast food. Of throat-drying air conditioners and bone-chilling winds. But in the middle of it all…I found comfort. Comfort in the form of a free pair of slightly undersized cotton airline pyjamas. Pyjamas that I only put on, that first, fateful night, because I was a shallow, jetlagged husk of a man, who stank of aeroplane and taxi and smog. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was confused.
But everything changed in that one moment.
These pyjamas just felt good. They felt…right.
Yes, they were a little too small, but that night, I slept the sleep of the innocent. I was warm. Comforted. Protected. I was a tiny cotton ball, all wrapped up in a charcoal sleep suit and as my eyes opened the next morning, I realised…my eyes had been opened.
“Pyjamas are incredible,” I thought to myself. “Why don’t I always wear pyjamas?”
I wanted to scream it to the world! “I am Danny Wallace and I love wearing little pyjamas!” I wanted to text my friends! To ask them whether they, too, had discovered the delights of little pyjamas! To tell them there is no need to explain, that we could embark upon this journey together – that we could wear our little pyjamas with pride! Maybe it would just take me to show them!
But this, of course, was all through the freedom that travel brings. I was in a different country, in a different time zone. Anything seemed possible. The world was my oyster, and I would be in that oyster – a small and simple pearl bouncing happily around in a pair of cotton PJs.
As the trip had come to an end, however, a certain hollowness had begun to creep in. Because I knew that, for me at least, the world of pyjamas was soon to be over.
“But why?” I thought, as I pretended to watch Desperate Housewives with my wife. “Why must I deny who I really am?”
“Coming to bed?” she said, as the credits began to roll.
I nodded, silently, and then decided: tonight would be the night I’d test the waters. And 20 minutes later, I’m yelling, “I can explain!”
“Look,” she says, the next morning. “I don’t mind if you want to wear pyjamas. I just wish you’d given me some warning. It was a bit of a shock.”
I am still wearing them and eating a bowl of Coco Pops.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
But I know it will. Because I have become an addict. How could I have been blind to them all these years? Why had I not seen the signs earlier? My dad was virtually born in pyjamas. When did it become socially unacceptable for a man to wear formal nightwear? Have pyjamas gone the way of pipes and monocles? I’d look great, all dressed up in my pyjamas with a pipe and a couple of monocles! We all would!
Why, then, do they bring such shame upon us? Why do our womenfolk frown upon us so? Maybe they just need to see us in our pyjamas to realize the comfort, the joy, the pleasure they bring! Maybe they will want their own. And if they do, we should be kind. We should simply pat them, patronizingly, on their heads and say, “There is no need to explain.”
I keep my pyjamas on all day. It is my own kind of protest. “Maybe this is what I will do,” I think, as I wander around the house, liberated. “Maybe I will wear pyjamas during the day and change into more appropriate clothing when she gets home.” But I resent having to go underground with this.
At half past six, though, I get changed into jeans and a T-shirt.
My wife is a little late home. “Perhaps she’s stopped off for a drink with her friends,” I think. “To come to terms with things. Settle her nerves. I’ve come out of the closet, wearing a little pair of pyjamas, after all, and this kind of thing can have an effect on the unenlightened.”
When she arrives home, things are a little stilted.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hello,” she says.
She puts her bags down and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“I just got a couple of microwave meals from M&S,” she says. “Is that OK?”
“That’s great,’ I say.
There’s an awkward moment.
I look in the bag.
She’s bought herself a little pair of pyjamas.
“I can explain!” she says.
“There is no need,” I say, patting her on the head. “There is no need.”

**Bridging the great train class divide

I am standing, jammed against the toilets of a packed and sweaty train from London to Bath. It is a Friday evening. There are at least one-million people on this train, only a handful of them sitting.
“Look at them,” I think. “Sitting with their smiles and their laptops and their Guardians. The bourgeoisie. The so-called ‘Elite.’”
I shake my head in disgust. It’s all about who you know on a train like this, I think. And about booking a seat in advance.
Perhaps, though, I am the lucky one. For I am one of a small group of people standing in the cold, jolting section between carriages, and I am part of a brotherhood. We have camaraderie through our suffering. We are the proletariat. We may not have seats, or warmth, but we have spirit.
And then, for the fifth time, a man bats me in the face as he turns the page of his newspaper and I realise that, really, I’d rather have seats and warmth. He doesn’t apologise. His eyes remain fixed on the sports reports. His paper is two inches from his face and one inch from mine. I am in real danger of receiving severe paper cuts every time he finishes another supplement.
Someone opened the window somewhere outside Reading and now it won’t shut. A large man has jostled me into straddling the section of the carriage that twists and gives as the train rounds bends. I am essentially snowboarding.
A feisty young woman barges through my section of the crowd, swearing at us under her breath, as if standing there deafened by the screeches and groans of a too-old train is a lifestyle choice. We look away, ashamed, blaming ourselves for being a burden, sorry to have bothered our masters. Twenty minutes later, she barges back through the other way, holding a can of Foster’s and a baguette, and swearing again.
I try to find someone’s eye. Enough is enough. Perhaps we can start a revolution. Perhaps those seated buffoons are not better than us. Perhaps we can rise up! But no one meets my eye.
“Where’s the camaraderie?” I think, looking around me. “Where’s the spirit of the Blitz? We’re just outside Swindon! Here, if anywhere, we need the spirit of the Blitz!”
But there is nothing. I strain to look down the still-rammed carriage. The feisty woman with the Foster’s has sat down with a grunt. And then I notice…she is alone! The feisty woman is now alone! She wasn’t before! There is a spare seat! Someone must have got off at Reading!
I wonder whether this is my chance to make something more of myself. To do something with my life. To join my betters. To sit down for the last part of the journey!
I cast my eyes around the brotherhood. Their eyes are fixed on the floor, or on their newspapers, or on the ceiling. They have not seen!
“I will do it,” I think, and I break away.
The small automatic door opens, and I can feel the eyes of my former brotherhood fixed on the back of my head, looking at me with hatred and envy. And then there are the surprised and panicked eyes of the already-seated. “What is he doing here?” they seem to be thinking. “Who are you, traveller, who dares enter our world?”
But I press on, exhilarated. I steady myself on the seats as the train judders, taking care not to hold on to them for too long, lest I anger my superiors. And then I am by the feisty woman’s side. Her Foster’s is open and there is a small piece of tuna on her lap. So this is how the other half live!
“Excuse me?” I say, a little too quietly. She does not look up. “Excuse me?”
She is sitting by the window. But I see what she has done. She has placed a small handbag and a light windbreaker on to the seat next to her, as a kind of clever shield. Her plan is impressive. By putting those things there, she thinks I will think they are an actual person. Or a strange shield which means she can’t see me or even hear me. But I will persist!
“Excuse me,” I say, louder, and this time she looks up.
There is no getting out of this one. That’s her lightweight windbreaker. That’s her handbag. It’s the same bag she was carrying when she bought her Foster’s and baguette!
“Is…er…is someone sitting there?” I say.
She looks at me. I look at her. I smile.
“Yes, there is,” she says, and goes back to eating her baguette.
I am stunned. Of course there’s no one sitting there!
“Sorry?” I say.
“No problem,” she says.
No! I was not apologising! And yet somehow I’ve…apologised!
I turn, shamed, and begin the long walk back. Those seated in the warmth look satisfied that my efforts have been rebuffed and go back to their Dan Brown books and style magazines. “No matter,” I think. “I will return to my rightful place, my head held high. I will return to my people!”
But I see that someone has already taken my spot. Now I must stand, embarrassed, next to the automatic door, where I will constantly set it opening and closing.
The man with the sports pages looks at me, smugly. I am an outcast. I have betrayed the brotherhood. I stare at the back of the woman’s head. At Swindon, she gets off, taking her windbreaker and bag with her.
The man with the sports pages waits a moment, and then takes her seat.
I stand all the way to Bath.

**Cucumber Cool But Sexy As A Gherkin

Be honest: London is not a sexy city. Take a good look around. Do you see more than one velour-clad teenager in your Tube carriage squeezing her size-14 rear into size-ten tracksuit bottoms? Sexy? I think not. See that businessman wiping the sweat from his brow with the hairy back of his hand, before sliding his fingers over his trouser leg? Attractive? Doubtful.

London has a problem. We can do cool. We can do class. We can even do city sleek. But we cannot, I repeat cannot, do sexy.

The problem is as much historical as contemporary. Was Nell Gwynne sexy? No; she was the 17th century's equivalent of Jordan, only with better acting skills. Was Robin Hood really one of our nation's sexiest heroes? I'll say it in three words: he wore tights.

Fast-forward to London's current pin-ups. Prince William is balding, Amy Winehouse makes Kurt Cobain look clean and Russell Brand is a walking advert for that smear test you've been postponing. Never have I looked at a famous Londoner and thought: I want to be in bed with you. Now.

We could take a leaf from the sexy books of our foreign friends. In Buenos Aires, their most phallic building is called the Torre de los Ingleses, literally "Tower of the English". Yet an equally erect structure in London gets called the Gherkin. Yummy, I say. Give me a side order of that with my pickled egg.

Or perhaps we should look to the French, who actually know how to smell good: their women dab perfume, they don't spray. Here's a tip ladies: don't douse Britney Spears' Curious all over you as if trying to ward off mosquitoes in Africa. A gentle application to the pulse points is far likelier to be the ticket to a successful night. Remember: subtle is sexy.

I've lived in London almost all my life and believe it's the coolest place on the planet. Our miserable climate is counterbalanced by our dry wit. And no other country can claim to be the best sporting losers in the world. But it is lonely. With no sex, we have to rely on our "cool" to see us through. Amy Macdonald summed up the capital's affliction perfectly on her recent album: It's so rock 'n' roll to be alone.

**The elaborate sandwich filling maketh the man (Short List article by Danny Wallace)

I am standing on the high street as the drizzle soaks through my jacket on a dull grey Wednesday afternoon and I am staring - bewildered and alone - into the middle distance. I have just taken a bite of the finest sandwich I've ever tasted; perhaps, even the finest ever made.

"There was lettuce involved," I tell my friend Colin later, my wild eyes shining as I relive it. "And some kind of...sauce."

Colin looks amazed. Later, I am sure, his amazement will turn to jealousy. But for now, we are just two men talking about an incredible sandwich. I had been in the queue at Subway when it had happened. Usually, like millions of other dull, unimaginative men, I would order a Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sub. It is what I normally do. It is safe. Trusted. I know where I am with that, and it's usually just outside Subway with sauce down my top and a piece of tomato on my shoe. But not today, my friends. Oh no. Today was different.

I'd been in a hurry. I had a train to catch. Things to do. And the queue was slow. In front of me, a man in a leather jacket was taking his time. Not for him the simplicity of choosing a predesigned sandwich, no. He was going off-menu. Improvising a new and elaborate creation. He was a lunchtime maverick, operating outside the boundaries, like a law unto himself. He selected his ingredients, mixed and matched, chose the perfect bread and the right sauce. He added a little cheese, I think, and certainly a smattering of jalapenos. He asked for some salt and pepper, requested it not be toasted and made the server take out some of the lettuce because it was "just too much".

At first, I was annoyed: "Who is this clown? Who does he think he is, laughing in the face of sandwich convention? Why does he not simply order a Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sandwich like the rest of us?" But I maintained my dignified silence. Soon he would be finished and I would finally be able to order my drab and soulless lunch.

"Ah, hang on," I suddenly heard him say. "That's not what I asked for - I asked for the six-incher. Not the whole sub. I told you that."

There was a slight harrumph from the server, who muttered something about not being told to stop, and a sigh was passed down the queue as we realised our wait would be extended by a few more seconds. I looked at my watch. And I thought of my train. And I suddenly said, "Look, I'll have the other half. I don't mind. I just want to get out of here."

The man smiled and said, "Are you sure?" I nodded graciously but with eyes closed to indicate that this was an extraordinary gesture on my part. He left with his six-incher, I watched him head into M&S and then I paid for mine and hurried along the street towards the Tube. And it was there, on the high street, that I took my first bite.

"It was a taste sensation," I tell Colin. "Light without being frivolous. Substantial without being overbearing. It was a thing of such beauty that words cannot do it justice."

"Who was he?" asks Colin. "Who was this man?"

"Who knows?" I say. "But, oh, what taste he has! He probably drives a classic Jag and drinks freshly brewed coffee on his Eames chair while his supermodel girlfriend naps on the Chesterfield! He probably has a favourite red wine! I bet he uses moisturiser and summers in Italy!"

"Definitely!" says Colin, wide-eyed. "If his Subway sandwich is anything to go by!"

In that moment, I wanted to be that man. A plan formed in my head: I would hang around in Subway all day from now on and, when he eventually walked in, I'd follow him round constantly. Into out-of-the-way, cool little cafes that I'd never have found, or designer boutiques that I never knew existed. And I would buy exactly what he did. I would trail him in the supermarket, picking up pasta sauces I'd never tried because I always had Dolmio, or cocoa beans from the Andes I'd never tried because I always bought a Twix. I would be this man's copycat, and he my guru. It would work. It had to. Because that sandwich was bloody incredible.

"Imagine the museums I'll go to!" I say to Colin. "Imagine the people I'll meet! The things I'll see!"

"And you're sure this bloke won't mind you following him around all the time?"

"He'll never know! And if he does, I'm sure that we will become great friends. He will see in me a soul mate to mentor. We will be united by exquisite taste."

"We should go to Subway," says Colin, suddenly. "Maybe you can recreate that sandwich!" I laugh, and shake my head. Poor, simple Colin. If only life were that easy, I think. Alas, it is not.

For a few days, I think about the man in Subway. And then, one day, a week or so later, I spot him again, striding down the street with a Starbucks panini in his hand.

And my heart stops. He is wearing the worst trousers I have ever seen: bright red slacks with stupid pockets. The sort of trousers you'd buy in M&S on a dull and grey Wednesday afternoon after you've just been all picky in Subway. I am shattered.

Later that week, I return to Subway.
I wait quietly, and then say, "Chicken Teriyaki please."