Fish finger blocking

“The Roast, The Ghost, and the Block”

By MissT (who knows her worth and seasons her potatoes)

I said, “I’m having a roast today,”
He said, “I’ll find something,” — cue the play.
So I tossed him a line, just cheek and chips:
“Fish fingers, maybe?” — with a saucy twist.

Silence fell, then came the shock
A grown man ghosted over cod in a box.
Not a chuckle, not a wink,
Just “Not funny.” Blocked. Gone in a blink.

No gravy invite, no flirty bite,
No sparkle, spice, or Sunday delight.
Apparently, wit was too much to chew
He wanted meat, not MissT’s view.

But let’s be honest, love, let’s not pretend:
If banter breaks you, it’s a dead-end.
I serve roast AND realness, laughter on tap,
If that’s too rich, he can jog on — no nap.

So here’s to the girls who roast alone,
Who laugh at life from their Yorkshire throne.
He wanted a plate. I gave him a test.
He failed the vibe check — I wish him the best.
(And no, there’s no leftovers.)