After a particularly nice shit in an upstairs bathroom of our school, I decided to explore the boiler cupboard, whose lock had become broken by time and the evil and pervasive influences of sixth-formers. On top of the water cylinder, high enough to require a good deal of stretching, I found a well-thumbed jazz-mag which saw me nicely through the dry years ahead, and - most oddly - an entire fried breakfast on a plate, complete with knife and fork, perfectly mummified to the point of ossification. To this day, I wonder how it came to be there with its glorious companion.