(in the sky! Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s what you feed to ducks when it goes stale)
Faster than a toaster set to the lowest setting, stronger than a thousand cut-off Hovis crusts, and able to cut a slice from a loaf in a single blow, this is the Legendary Bread-Man of Senate House! By night, he may be an ordinary student, ignoring deadlines for the glorious promise of standing in line outside KOKO for four hours next to the dug-up pavement and building works like a homeless man living alongside a ditch instead of in it; but by day, or at least one day, he is the Legendary Bread-Man of Senate House, stalking the famous Orwellian library with his signature loaf, and slightly-less-signature-but-functionally-as-important carrier bag.
I saw him today, as I milled amongst the crowds at the University of London Housing Fair, walking ineffectually in circles like an NPC from the first Assassin’s Creed; as I wandered around the hall, he brushed past me, exuding an aura of self-confidence, villainy-smiting, and the smell of those half-and-half loaf thingies that are nutritious like brown bread but are white to pander to the secretly racist needs of the British public. By his hip hung his carrier bag, an unbranded, transparent satchel of justice, presumably a relic formed by some omnipotence force crossed with a radioactive arachnid, and bestowed upon this single human for some loftier purpose that will inevitably be revealed to be a crossover film with five other popular heroes about three years down the line. Either that or it was from one of those shitty local fishmongers who can’t even afford to put their own logos on their bags.
But in this pouch of power was the loaf itself, or indeed a half-loaf, for two quarters of its righteous power had obviously been spent thwarting the schemes of some miscreant that morning; the half-loaf was also pre-sliced, which validated me and my similar choices in bread, for my opinions on the matter happen to coincide with those of this bastion of the breaded arts.
In his right hand was the true power: a slice of the loaf itself. It was thin, lightly browned, and pulsating with the raw, animalistic energy usually reserved for being trampled upon, and then eaten by, a pack of wild buffalo, or anime fans without a queue-jumper ticket at a convention. I beheld this slice of bread, as it swam through the air at the end of this hero’s arched, graceful fingers, like what Miyamoto probably imagined playing with the Wii would be like; and then our hero slid this great tool into his mouth, and consumed it with the flippancy of one who performs the unbelievable each day, and makes the extraordinary truly extraordinary.
I left this brief encounter feeling both inadequate for not being him, but so validated for seeing him.
TL;DR went to Senate House today and saw a bloke wandering around eating bread from a carrier bag. It was weird.