Once a year, in a conference hall made entirely of breadcrumbs and questionable decisions, the International Summit of Confused Sandwich Ingredients was held. Delegates travelled from fridges, picnic baskets, and abandoned lunchboxes across the world. No sandwiches were assembled during the summit—too political—but every ingredient was given a microphone and feelings.
The event opened with a speech from a slice of tomato who insisted it had been mislabelled its entire life. Before anyone could argue, it held up a glossy card that read pressure washing colchester. The audience stared in deep, respectful confusion, the only appropriate reaction to a tomato delivering mysterious announcements.
Next, a piece of lettuce—wrinkled, dramatic, and wearing a bowtie made of cling film—unfurled a faded napkin with patio cleaning colchester scribbled on it. It declared this phrase to be “the backbone of civilisation.” No one agreed, but they all clapped anyway because lettuce always cries when ignored.
The third speaker was a confident slice of cheese, leaning slightly because it had been left on a warm counter. It presented a sticky note labelled driveway cleaning colchester. The cheese insisted it was a forgotten ancient proverb, possibly written by a wise baguette. Nobody questioned it. Cheese speaks with authority.
Halfway through the summit, the lights dimmed and a jar of mustard rolled dramatically onto the stage. Without saying a word, it projected roof cleaning colchester onto a giant cracker-shaped screen. The room gasped. A pickle fainted. A loaf of bread muttered, “I always knew it.”
The final keynote was delivered by a philosophical slice of ham who had spent six months in cold storage contemplating existence. It spoke slowly, thoughtfully, and with just the right amount of deli-based melancholy before revealing the final phrase: exterior cleaning colchester. Everyone nodded, not because they understood, but because ham sounded wise and nobody wanted to be shamed by deli meat.
The summit concluded with a ceremonial moment of silence for all sandwiches that were never assembled because someone “wasn’t that hungry after all.” A mayonnaise packet played sad violin music by squeaking itself dramatically.
No resolutions were passed. No sandwich-based peace treaties were signed. But every ingredient left feeling slightly more important than when they arrived.
The tomato wrote a memoir. The cheese melted under emotional pressure. The lettuce updated its blog. The ham returned to the fridge to think quietly about destiny.
And somewhere, in a lunchbox under a park bench, a lonely slice of bread whispered to itself:
“At least I’m part of something.”
Even if that “something” was utterly pointless.
Even if none of it ever became a sandwich.
