Having dealt with that, I decided to drastically reduce my intake of high fat foods. No more fresh cream (not even in my coffee), no more custard, no more pastries, no more cake even of the lighter variety, and very little of the full fat cheese to which I was virtually addicted. I was pleased with my discipline, but life became even more tedious.
And so last week I decided that I was due a treat, reasoning that a small amount taken in isolation would do little harm. I bought a pair of small fancies consisting of two ‘crowns’ of meringue sandwiching a thin layer of chocolate and a thicker layer of fresh cream.
Imagine the level of my expectation as I opened the package and took one of them out. I picked it up, opened my mouth (carefully judged to be just wide enough to accommodate the delectable comestible because I consider genteel eating habits to be one of the first requirements of a person claiming to be civilised) and lifted it in the direction of blissful consummation. Unfortunately, the meringue ‘crowns’ were rather less firm than meringue comestibles are supposed to be. They broke, and the floor became the recipient of numerous bits of white detritus punctuated with flecks of cream and fragments of chocolate, most of which disappeared into the vacuous maw of the vacuum cleaner.
Upon witnessing this unfortunate state of affairs, many people – those of naturally cheerful perception – would have laughed. I didn’t because my perceptions are rather less than cheerful these days, but I didn’t cry either because big boys don’t, at least not over spilled meringue comestibles. But I admit to having been less than happy and I was reminded of an incident in my childhood.
I was seven years old and on holiday in Devon. It was a warm, sunny day and my mother gave me the money to buy an ice cream, which I did with great glee because my life to that point had been lived at subsistence level and ice cream was a rare treat. Walking back, I tripped over something on the ground, and the ground was where my ice cream landed while my hands were occupied in breaking my fall. As far as I can remember, I didn’t cry on that occasion either. (Heaven knows why; little boys are allowed to, aren’t they?) And my mother took pity on me and gave me the money to buy a second ice cream, which I held onto very firmly before devouring it.
And now, all these years later, I wonder whether my experience of having lived at subsistence level during early childhood was responsible for the fact that I’ve never chased money. I even look down on those who do, although I suppose I probably shouldn’t. I don’t know the answer to that; you’d have to ask a psychologist.
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