Yes I am one of those god awful people.
Those terrible beings, who, when ordering a meal, takes about 10 minutes explaining what they don’t want.
If you ask my Dad, he’ll tell you I was a good eater until I started school and then heard other kids say how they don’t like this and that. That’s bollocks. I’ve never been a sheep; not even at 4 and he knows this, but hey, whatever helps him sleep.
It’s a plight. Take Mayo, I bloody well hate the stuff. Can I purchase an “off the shelf” sandwich minus mayo? Can I hell. Just as I can’t purchase a burger without a gherkin. I mean WTF is that all about?
I was once invited to a “dinner party.” As soon as I was verbally invited, I broke out into a cold sweat. Dinner parties are not my forte.
To start was melon, followed by Salmon en crute and if that’s not bad enough, I found myself saying yes please when offered a slice of Cinnammon cake. I hate Cinnammon.
Those few hours were some of the most distressing of my life. Trying to smile, whilst you’re wretching is not easy let me tell you. Salmon is not something you can hide easily on your dinner plate – that shitty bright pink gives you right away.
After forcing melon and Salmon down, nobody was as surprised as I was to hear me accepting the cake. So why did I accept the cake? Believe it or not, I’m actually too polite for my own good at times.
Taking me to these fine dining restaurants is a waste of time. That’s why, in 4 years of knowing Wayne, we’ve never set foot in one together. Wayne knows I’m happier at a Taco Bell – that way I can change my order 87 times, just minus the scornful scowls.
Being a picky eater is a curse. If the opportunity to invite me for dinner arises, pinch yourself and remember who you’re dealing with. And then do us both a favour and uninvite me.