I admit that I like scotch eggs
All those dodgy snacks sold in garage shops, eaten mostly by fat old men who drive white vans with witty remarks about their wives scrawled in the accumulated dirt, I could do without for ever. I would ban them without a second thought, save the scotch egg. The fat man’s fruit is a thing of beauty and the most satisfying nibble in the world.
My main problem with “sceggs” (this is what they are called in the real world — ask anyone) is that I like them at all. You see, I usually call myself a vegetarian, although I eat fish (OK, sorry!) and my fixation with these tumour-like balls of sausage, egg and breadcrumbs interferes with that image.
A veggie witnessing my snacking would cold-shoulder me, as would anyone else who happened to see it because, let’s face it, sceggs have never been top of any gastro list. The only place where no one blinks an eye is the garage forecourt. So thanks, guys.
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I admit that I hate the dating game
Technically — and I was recently informed of this by a big-match referee, so it must be true — I am playing the field. My only problem is that I’m not sure exactly who else is playing, and by what rules.
At least I’m on the pitch, I suppose, but organised games have never been my thing, and the rules of this one are more complicated than cricket.
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My flatmate pounced the other day, demanding to know whom I was phoning — she sincerely hoped that it wasn’t X, with whom I’d been out the evening before. I was mildly surprised but concurred that, yes, she was correct, thanks for asking. She wrestled me to the floor, pinned my arms behind my back and proceeded to speak at great length and with much authority of the three-day rule, the five-day rule, and the he-must-call-you-or-this-will-definitely-be-the-end rule, etc. Everybody knows about these, apparently, and she is now ashamed that we share a bathroom.
I really don’t get this . . . surely if you want to speak to someone you call them and if you want to see them you do? Basically, if you like someone, why pretend that you don’t? Moral of this story: don’t have a flatmate.
Sara Lawrence