If you’ve read any of the previous Sunday entries, you probably know the drill by now:-
Got up…. Went to my Mom’s…. We went out for Sunday dinner…. Blah blah blah…
Well today was pretty much like that too – except with a small but significant twist. Rather than going to the Hare & Hounds for dinner as usual, we tried out a brand new place called The Royal George. This provided a somewhat novel change. Rather than plating the meals up and bringing them to the table, The Royal George operated a carvery, serving beef and pork (see – I told you how I’d intended a crazy shake-up of my life). There were only four other diners in the pub, so we didn’t even have to queue at the hotplate. Bonus!
My Mom went first, ordering her usual “child’s portion” of meat, before heading off for some slim pickings at the self-serve veg counter. Then I handed my plate to the carver, ordering myself some of the pork. This morning I had skipped breakfast, so inevitably I watched the knife gliding down the hulking block of meat in ravenous anticipation. He placed the first slice on my plate. My mouth watered. But my anticipation soon turned to disappointment, when he began cut the second of his slices in half, returning it back to the hot plate. Apparently one and a half measly scraggs of pork was all I would be getting.
It occurred to me that just because my Mom had ordered the child’s portion, then maybe he’d assumed I’d ordered it too. I wanted to address his possible mistake, but having never been there before, I couldn’t really be sure if it was a mistake at all. Maybe it was simply a matter of comparative proportion because the Hare & Hounds had been spoiling us with meaty generosity for so long. Our usual Sunday establishment was a bit more expensive, so this possibly explained such varying portions. Even so, it still seemed a bit mean to have sliced so little. There were still mountains of meat left, and since it was 2 in the afternoon and the place was only occupied by four other diners, it was unlikely that much more would get used. It seemed a shame - most of it would probably just get thrown away. What other conceivable conclusion could there be? That the carving boy was some sort of young Nazi, wishing to use the pig carcass as part of some of anti-Semitic victimization prank?
Predictably, and irrespective of any dissatisfaction toward this frugality, my reaction was to say nothing, move on to the vegetable selection, compensate by serving myself a glutinous amount of roast potatoes, then quietly sit down to eat.
While sitting in near-seething disgruntlement, I couldn’t help but feel partly responsible for the measly meaty conundrum. If I wasn’t so socially self-conscious, maybe I would have been more equipped to address the issue. It’s possible I might have still decided it didn’t seem worth going all undignified and ‘Oliver Twist’ about it but either way, at least I’d feel confident enough to give myself the option to find out. So what if I risked looking a bit rude? My perceived sarcasm might have been the kick the carver needed to stop hogging the blatantly ample hog, and carve more generous portions.
Of course, I don’t wholly blame myself. It would be wrong not to acknowledge that the responsibility should also be partly awarded to my Mother. She was the one who ordering the child’s portion in the first place, thus allowing these doubts of portion adequacy in my mind.
I’ve never understood that. Why do people always seem to eat less the older they get? Have you noticed that there’s always something left on an old person’s plate after dinner? It makes no sense. Surely old age should be a time of indulgence. At such an advanced time of life, looks are well on their way to fading, so what difference is a few pounds going to make? God knows after a lifetime of hard toil, you deserve to knock yourself out. That’s what I intend to do. If I reach retirement having amassed a lot of money, I fully intend to get myself a heroin habit. You’ve earned that money through your labour and it’s not like you can take it with you, can you? What better time to see what all the hard drug fuss is about? After years of working hard and living in careful moderation, why would anyone want to conclude their existence in mundane boredom? It’s not like you’d technically be wasting your life cos most of it would have already been spent.
If there’s any pensioners reading this, I urge you to get smacked up immediately.
I’m telling you man, the twilight years ain’t half wasted on the old.
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