I had sausage and chips for tea this evening, and smothered them with what I assumed to be a harmless sauce from my brother's fridge. "HP" it said... "Hot Potato?" "Henry Parsons"? What did that HP stand for? Who cared?
After half an hour, I noticed a small change. Suddenly, I could feel a slight lump in my throat. What was this? My babysitting charge hadn't yet spent two hours screaming at me, and I had no reason to feel like crying. As I struggled to shift the lump, I turned to my son and asked him to fetch me a glass of water. Suddenly, I realised my voice had deepened, and my son looked at me in a mixture of terror and shock... "Mummy... You sound like GRANDAD!", he gasped. "It's just a bad throat," I tried to reassure him, hoping that I could calm my own fears as well. But who was I kidding? As I headed to the kitchen, trying to escape the confused crying coming from my nephew, I caught a glance of my reflection in my sister-in-law's mirror, and noticed a few stray hairs sprouting from my cheeks.
I headed back into the kitchen, feeling an overwhelming urge to scratch testicles I hadn't previously possessed. As I pulled the bottle of HP out of the cupboard, I saw a post-it note that had fallen to the floor of the fridge. Upon reading the note, it became clear to me; "HP" wasn't the initial of the creator of the suspicious substance... It stood for "His Pissing" Sauce. Now, as a result of my desire for HP sauce, I've had to learn to embrace my manliness, as my son has to learn to embrace his new "Dad"...
Women, please stick to the more effeminate Salad Cream. For your sakes, and for the sakes of your children.