My stomach rumbles with a 10 on the Richter scale, and that’s after I’ve eaten breakfast. So can you imagine my woes when the clock is fast approaching that heaven sent 1pm mark on the office clock?
Feasting time is well and truly upon us, but wait, what to have I hear you ask? Shall I go boring with the trusty club sandwich, stink the place out with my salmon fillet and veg combo from last night or just drown myself in glasses of tap water until the grumbles in my stomach becomes underwater fart noises?
That’s right, you guessed it. I’m famished so choose to have a glass of water. And why’s that? It’s because I can’t goddamn decide on what to eat! Oh but you’re hungry, you’ll eat anything! No. I. Shant.
I’m a fussy eater when it comes to lunchtimes only. I blame the parents, see, I use to be the kid who’d have the slimy ham sandwich while the rest of the sprogs got hot school meals. Ingrained in me from a young age that lunch time dining was the equivalent of chewing shards of glass, I hope you can begin to feel my pain.
No I’m not a kid nomore, mum doesn’t make me below average pack lunch anymore (thank f*ck) but then again neither do I. My idea of cooking is throwing everything into a wok and praying that I don’t get food poisoning. It must be in the genes, any wannabee pursuitors out there, fyi, I can’t cook. So that’s probably a deal breaker. So I can’t cook, I’ve accepted this, but not without a fight. There was a while where I would cross unchartered territory and stick my nose in a book of student basic recipes or troll cooking sites online. The only problem was, I couldn’t afford an ingredients list the length of my arm for their version of posh beans on toast! But even when the recipe was pretty simple, I always managed to f*ck it up.
Take for example a bulgur wheat salad. Sounds healthy, it’s slightly more exotic than just tomatoes and an iceberg lettuce so I thought here goes, I’ll give it a try. Verdict: bulgur wheat – it’s an ugly name with an even uglier taste. If you ever wanna try cardboard without trying cardboard force a spoonful of vulgar wheat down your guzzler. It doesn’t help the fact that I’m not a fan of dressings, they make everything soggy, so no wonder I almost had the coroner saying ‘death by suffocation’.
If it’s not the recipe at hand which I have a problem stomaching it’s the monotony. Yes, yes, routine is good in certain areas of life but if you give me chicken soup for a third day in a row it’s going round you. I’m just a nightmare when it comes to lunches! Still to this day, I wonder what the solution would be, why can’t I just be normal and eat a jacket potato like everyone else?
These are the questions that keep me up at night.