After many happy years, we’ve gone through a troubled period and, whilst my passion is still unbounded, my love is no longer reciprocated. In fact, it’s all turned rather nasty.
In my younger days, I was insatiable. I could literally enjoy it virtually all day, and even late in to the night, as much as I could lay me hands on. But, as time goes on, it’s getting more and more difficult, and now I find myself wondering – is it worth it? And then the waves of unpleasantness and acidity crash forth afterwards, leaving me upset and lonely in the depths of the night, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, longing for the pain to end.
Yes, I get terrible indigestion.
Sorry, you thought I was talking about what?! This isn’t THAT kind of column, thank you very much.
At the weekend, I had the pleasure of going out for a cracking meal at No.17 in Milnthorpe. Everyone agreed the food was fantastic, and my coffee crème brulee, with rum and raisin ice cream, pistachio shortbread, chocolate coated coffee beans, and some pink drizzly liquid on the plate (why do they do that, by the way?) was mind-blowingly delicious.
But even as I was savouring it’s creamy gorgeousness, and taste-bud caressing flavours, alarm bells were ringing in my head. And there it was – my indigestion voice. It had already been warning me when I looked at the menu, but I managed block it out with cider. Now it was back though – whispering in my ear, in that sarcastic, snidey way it has.
“Ooooh!” It cooed. “Isn’t this just lovely! Mmmm. Ever so rich and creamy, isn’t it? What with all the other nice things you’ve had – those olives, and the Haloumi cheese thing – just smashing!” It then whispered, tauntingly, “Don’t let worrying about later spoil it for you, will you, sweetie?”
I hate that voice. I hear it a lot nowadays. Where once I’d have a big slab of the triple chocolate torte, then ask for seconds, now I worry that it’ll be back to haunt me later. Anchovies? I might as well drink the contents of a car battery. Stilton? Just shove that red hot poker in my guts, would you?
Sure enough, at 3am on Saturday morning, I was wide awake, sweating slightly, the burning, sickening feeling proving, once again, that I should have listened to my whispering nemesis. An hour on the sofa, tablets, and a glass of water later, I crawled back to bed, spending Sunday tired and still feeling the rusty spoon of doom mixing my innards like a demented Nigella on, appropriately enough, acid.
But do I learn? The ultimate gamble of instant pure delicious gratification, versus possible tortured unpleasantness at a later point, is a tough one to resist.
Do you feel lucky, food punk? There’s always that packet of Rennie in the cupboard...
Have a good, acid free, weekend.
If you can.
This post first appeared in my 'Thank grumpy it's Friday' column in the North West Evening Mail on Friday 20th July 2012. This is the unedited version - you can view the printed/online version here: "Painful reminder after eating a meal", was used as the title by the NWEM, which gave the story away before you'd read the first couple of paragraphs, thus rather spoiling my cunning diversion. Go on - go there and leave a comment. I'm starting to think I've stopped existing...
(Oddly fed up this evening. Not even The Business - The Definitive Singles Collection by Madness is cheering me up. Bah.)
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