Food

25 Feb 2010

I have a strange relationship with food. Sometimes I just forget to eat it.

Now, I am aware that my body is supposed to have certain safeguards to prevent this happening. Hunger being the obvious one; I'm not sure whether suddenly finding that your legs have turned to jelly making you fall down in the street and accidentally crush a passing dog counts as a safeguard. Probably not.

At this point I should probably have dinner. But what the hell – I'm still alive, why should I eat? Waste of time.

This doesn't mean I don't *like* food. I think I resent its neediness. One of things my mum always said was that if there were leftovers in the fridge they "needed eating up". Food just hangs about the place and expects you to do its bidding, like a pretty blonde with fake breasts hanging around at the Orange Tree in Barnet waiting for a passing footballer. Well, I've had enough of dancing to your tune, food.

So, should you ever observe the contents of my fridge and note the disgusting, suppurating mess evolving into the Conservative front-bench at the back of the second shelf, it's not me being a slob, it's a political statement against oppression. Which smells a bit.

OK, OK, I'll throw it out. Bullies.