Cheese slice*

*I mean "cheese slicer" with an R at the end, which is why this post makes no sense whatsoever.

I missed my flat-mate's 40th birthday on Saturday. How is that even possible? I just staggered back drunk from the pub and came home to a house full of empty beer cans and birthday cards. That's weird, I thought. Who's had their 40th birthday in my apartment? Oh, of course. David. Luckily, he was nowhere to be seen, so I went to bed adamant to wake up early the next morning and dash out to buy him something special.

Trouble is, there's not an awful lot you can buy in Reykjavík on a Sunday morning, bar ridiculously strong coffee and novelty gifts made out of lava. I scanned the apartment for something I could wrap up and stick a ribbon on. His beard trimmer — that classic man-gift. Or the half-empty bottle of malt that my guests left last week. Or maybe he'd like a go with bunny? (Only on loan, of course).

No, unfortunately I was going to have to get him something from the tourist shop, damnit. But as soon as I walked in through the door I saw the perfect present: a cheese slice with "Iceland" written on it in fancy script. David loves cheese slices. And he loves Iceland. You can't get cheese slices in the UK. Or rather, you can get them over there, but nobody knows what they're for. (It's that thing at the back of your kitchen drawer that you once used to fold an omelette with by mistake).

It worked. I was forgiven for being a day late. He says it's going to become a family heirloom.