The Sandwich Box

I’m not yet decided on why I liked the Sandwich Box quite as much as I did.
Perhaps it was the way I’d spent my whole morning waiting — either in the sports centre while it was maybe or maybe not on fire, in the doctor’s surgery surrounded by ill children — that as soon as I’d escaped from this I knew I was free, free to be out and about and not bound to the schedules of others, free to explore my neighbourhood.
So I happened upon the Sandwich Box which is a little unassuming place at the top of Gillespie Road. Except to me on the day it appeared like a beacon of hope — sun shining onto the tables set out the front, the blackboard announcing that yes, «we sell hot salf beef».
I went inside and shunned the beef in favour of a chicken escalope batch, which I had made up with chilli mayonnaise and loads of salad. So far, so normal sandwich gaff. The service was lovely though — two very friendly ladies busying themselves around the little kitchen, laughing and chatting amongst the photos of their kids dressed up in Arsenal shirts. The Sandwich Box brought me back to life after a morning of hell. I sat out on one of the tables, the sun on my face and the wind blowing the leaves around, listening to three painters and decorators talk about their football training in their best norf Landan accents.
Yes, I thought to myself, everything is okay so long as there are sandwich shops in the world.