The calendar has abandoned numbers entirely. It now speaks in blood‑red glyphs, each one pulsing like a heartbeat. I opened it this morning to find a single entry: “Goose.” No time, no place, just the word, glowing faintly. The inbox has joined in, sending me emails from addresses like oracle@drizzleprophecy.com. Each message contained only one phrase: “The flood is coming.”

The drizzle has become a deluge. It no longer falls politely; it surges, pooling in gutters, streaming down walls, seeping into shoes and cupboards. Indoors, the damp has taken on a rhythm, dripping in sync with the calendar’s glyphs. I swear I heard the kettle whistle in harmony with the rain.

And then there’s the driveway. Today’s deposit was unmistakable: a goose. Not just a crude outline, but a full‑bodied omen, wings spread wide, crowned with redcurrant berries pressed into the spiral. I stood there in the flood, staring at it, and the calendar pulsed again: “Goose.” The driveway has become apocalyptic. It knows the sandwiches before I do, and now it speaks in symbols of endings.

Today’s sandwich is Roast & Revel’s Goose & Redcurrant Relish.

Roast goose, redcurrant relish, watercress, sourdough.

The sourdough is firm and chewy, its crust golden and blistered. Inside, slices of roast goose are rich and indulgent, their flavour deep and gamey. Redcurrant relish cuts through with sharp sweetness, sticky and bright, clinging to the meat and bread alike. Watercress adds peppery freshness, a green spark against the heaviness of goose and currant.

The first bite is decadent, indulgent, overwhelming. The goose is heavy, the redcurrant sharp and insistent, the watercress fresh and defiant. The sourdough holds it all together, sturdy and reliable, a frame for the indulgence inside. It’s a sandwich that feels less like food and more like ritual — a prophecy fulfilled, a bite dictated by drizzle and driveway alike.

Eating it while floodwater laps at the doorstep and the calendar hums feels uncanny. The Goose & Redcurrant Relish doesn’t just distract from the chaos; it participates in it, a sandwich that tastes like inevitability.

Tomorrow, the driveway will speak again. The calendar will write new glyphs. The drizzle will surge in new rhythms. But for now, the goose sandwich offers a moment of clarity — a bite that feels like destiny, carved in dampness and prophecy.