Father has reached an age, as all caucasian males inevitably must do, when hormonal changes lead to an almost possessive desire to preserve, pickle and jar all available foodstuffs.
On two occasions we've caught him leaning over the neighbour's fence palms grasping at fruit in flagrant displays of what he terms 'scrumping'. Any accusation of this possibly being 'theft' is met with indignant rage. A return to the kitchen post-scrump (legal or otherwise) will see it snowed over with Tate and Lyle, sickly vapours rising whilst our protagonist guards his oversized saucepan.
The beauty of this whole exercise comes in the branding; the man seems convinced he's at the helm of a million dollar industry, only it's been a hard day and now he's squiffy. To all best intentions, he runs the 'John Jam Co.' - to the eyes of the outsider, our cupboards are stocked with produce from the 'John John Co', 'The Jam John Co.', 'Jam Jam by John' and all possible derivates of the J-J couplet.
Our man's recent birthday gift was 300 labels, to solve his problem and to unify the shelves of the pantry. He was buzzing.
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