The revelation came to me one Sunday morning in bed – sometimes the good things in life simply aren’t that good
It’s taken me a while to get there, but finally I’ve reached a conclusion: where food and drink is concerned, luxury is hell. This revelation came to me one Sunday morning, as I navigated the deformed miseries of breakfast in bed. It’s meant to be the height of indulgence; the route to that little bit of pink-negligeed Barbara Cartland lurking within us all. You are supposed to rub your hands together with childish glee: ooh, a little eggy something on a tray. Instead, you can never get comfortable, the tray is unstable on the bed, and you know you’ll be hoovering crumbs off the sheets for days. It becomes a trauma of sweaty crevices and butter-smeared pillows, and not in a good way. And don’t even talk to me about the risks of Nutella stains. Other brands aren’t available.
There are many examples of this. There are the dread words “champagne reception”. One glass of champagne is fine. One glass is lovely. I adore a single flute, misty with condensation, the bubbles popping against your upper lip as you drink. But a whole damn night of it? It’s a vile collision of gaseousness and tooth-stripping acidity, with only the promise of a headache within a couple of hours to remind you what a terrible idea it all was. Plus, nobody can ever afford the good stuff at these events so what you drink ends up tasting like something you’d use to polish coins or ward off foxes.
I know what you’re thinking: that this is a disgusting display of self-indulgence
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