Liquid food is rubbish.
When I don't eat properly I get low blood sugar. I feel like daddy on a Saturday lunchtime (when we steer well clear because if he hasn't had soup by 12, he will maim or possibly even kill.) except I'm not that bad, I just get a little bit edgy.
Food, or rather eating, is a source of distress to a lot of people, especially girls. I, for one, am very lucky as I have never really had a problem with eating. That is, unless you count eating everything and anything you want as a problem. As a bearer of an under active thyroid, I should, by rights, be fat.
I don't see the point in going to a restaurant and not eating what I want. If I want a steak and chips, I will have just that. With peppercorn sauce. And a side salad. And a coke. A fat coke. Diet coke tastes of air and is, in my opinion, a fake drink.
This all has a point. Without the proper use of my teeth, I am having a nightmare. Yesterday in front of the rugby, everybody ate bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese and cucumber. We were starving... (especially me. I had eaten Heinz cream of tomato soup the night before and had quickly given up when I realised it was just glorified bean juice. Without the glory. Because it was foul. If I had wanted bean juice I would have bought beans.) So.. Everyone wolfed down their beautiful bagels. I had to deconstruct the sandwich (Greg Masterchef would have been proud). I nibbled the cucumber, I nibbled the salmon (which I had to rip up with my fingers), I nibbled the bagel. It took a good 20 minutes to eat. I was frustrated. I looked like a pig. Some of the people I was with had never met me before so probably just assumed that was how I ate. Mortifying, when will this family ever get a good reputation kind of situation.
Furthermore, I could feel the stitches were loose, as the string, which I'm sure should have been trimmed before I left the hospital, kept catching on my tongue.
Each sensation had to be eaten in 6 Nibbles. There's definitely a problem when a member of the crisp guzzling faction can't actually guzzle the crisps. I was a failure. I was ashamed. Walkers had finally beaten me. I couldn't even muster a Thai sweet chilli and a dip.
The Cotton "drinks and nibbles" used to be on a Friday night. Vic and I would sit on the windowsill waiting for Daddy, brucecase in hand, to get back from work. He might have a whiskey, mummy a G&T and vic and I would have a lemon squash (with lemonade if we were lucky) and then we'd have crisps and dips. Fussypants vic obv wouldn't have the dip. Sometimes we had cucumber and carrot to dip too. Nowadays, when 'the sun's over the yardarm' or 'when the time has a 7 in it' (wise words from papa) we crack open a wine (each) and eat a good few bags of crisps, dip or no dip.
I am writing this on the train. I can taste metal. I wipe my my mouth. There is blood on my hand. I am a big fat mess.
I feel like this could be the beginning of a crime novel...
She stares out of the train window. Bleak landscape. Barren fields. Sky heavy with smog. The trees droop, tired with the nothingness that consumes them.* She stares. A single trickle of deep red blood escapes from her lip. Her teeth are stained scarlet. She stares. Her eyes are glazed. Stony. Dead.
In a few minutes time this service will be terminating in London Kings Cross so... The end.
*aka Grantham.
No comments:
Post a Comment