A Matter of Some Import.

What shall I talk about today? Woman troubles? The cruel vicissitudes of life? Bouts of anxiety? Identity crises? The waves of self-loathing to which I have suddenly become prey? Or onion rings? OK, onion rings it is.

The most notable feature of Sainsbury’s onion rings is their size. It takes quite a stretching of the mouth to fit two of them in - even arranged in the most economical manner - and when you do, the brain says ‘Gosh, this a big feed, better tell the stomach to mobilise its forces.’ Ah, but the impression is short-lived, because it takes only about five chews for the onion rings to be reduced almost to nothing. This is, of course, because 90% of their composition is air that has been carefully arranged so as to be unnoticeable.

At this point the brain gets confused. ‘What’s going on 'ere, then?’ it asks, while the stomach stands with hands on hips and shouts up to the brain: ‘Hey, brain, I’ve got two men on overtime down here. Where’s the big shipment you promised?’

The brain imagines that it is somehow neglecting its duty, and can think of only one course of action. ‘Will you please eat some more of those onion rings, stomach needs something to occupy those men he’s got on overtime,’ it pleads. And so you do, and so the process continues until the brain wakes up, realises it’s being duped, and instructs you to re-take control of your life.

(The concept of re-taking control of my life is more apposite, ironic, sad, and maybe even amusing than you know. But I did undertake to talk only of onion rings, so...)

I think the makers of Sainsbury’s onion rings are a very clever bunch of people who know just what it takes to sell a lot of them. I think they must be cleverer than I am.