Noggin’s Nosh – in 300 words

Noggin’s Nosh

By N. M. Sirett©

NOGGIN’S NOSH

Every day little Guy delivered a boxed head to an old woman, just outside Milton Keynes.

            He didn’t work for any of the biggies: Uber Eats and the like. But hired instead by Noggin’s Nosh, a local business.

He rode a bicycle with a thermal box. His bald head shone in the sun like a culinary beacon as he rode the streets delivering food. At 1pm, he regularly collected a steaming box from the kitchen for old Miss Price of 52 Mill Place. She’d never failed to greet him with an eager, wet-lipped grin and diamond-glint eyes.

            It was Wednesday, and little Guy was habitually waiting by the half-open door of Noggin’s Nosh kitchens for the hand that extended through the door holding the order. But today, the chef’s hand was somewhat scaley. As though it’d suffered a blow skinning sea bass, or been afflicted with Ichthyosis. Shrugging insouciantly, he accepted the steaming box from the lizard-arm and headed off, riding along merrily.

But the head began to sing Herman’s Hermits’ I’m Henry VIII I Am. Well, I’m telling you, poor little Guy nearly toppled off his bike but managed to stop by the kerb. Charily, he opened the lid. The steaming head was preparing for another verse but stopped when it saw his tiny disbelieving eyes.

            ‘It’s alive!’ said little Guy as great plumes of steam cleansed his pores.

            ‘Get back on your bike!’ snapped the head.

            ‘Who are you?’ asked little Guy.

            ‘I’m Anne Boleyn, for all you need to know! Now take me to see the old woman while I’m still fresh!’

            Now whether it was out of sheer fright or daily routine, we’ll never know, but little Guy did cycle on, heading up the hill towards 52 Mill Place. Singing the same song all the way.