Common as muck
Today's Weight 200.0lbs
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I had to go to London for a meeting yesterday, and the trains into Liverpool Street were running just fine, and the underground too. The emergency services have done an awesome job. I figured there wasn't any point staying away from public transport out of fear or intimidation - if your number's up, it's up and there's not much you can do about it - and judging by how crowded my tube was, most Londoners seem to have the same pragmatic mentality. Nothing imprisons people quicker than fear, so it was good to see so many people just going placidly about their daily business. To my mind, fear is more of a threat to our way of life than any terrorist organisation - we mustn't lose our sense of perspective.
I hope this doesn't lead to an anti-Muslim backlash in England, or a mindless knee-jerk rush to give up more of our civil liberties. The government will ruthlessly exploit every sign of public fear or weakness to press forward with their dreadful ID cards, their disgraceful anti-terrorist legislation, their shameful anti-asylum policy...and before you know it we'll have given up our most precious freedoms in the spurious pursuit of homeland security. The alacrity with which ordinary people seem prepared to cede total power to the government never ceases to appal and amaze me.
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Anyway, this is supposed to be a weightloss not a political blog, so I'll climb down off my soapbox now.
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It dawned on me last night that one of the reasons I have a problem with my weight could be because I’m just so common.
Allow me to explain…
My boss (who is very nice, and who I followed from my old job to this one) took me out last night for a belated birthday meal, to a fancy restaurant famous in this part of the country. Now, I don’t do ‘fancy’ – my idea of a nice meal out is a char-grilled chiliburger and chips, or a steaming great bowl of pasta followed by chocolate mousse and ice cream. So it was with some trepidation that I set foot inside the restaurant, feeling under-dressed for the occasion in my jeans (she told me we were going to a pub – how was I to know she was planning a surprise) – maybe if I’d been wearing my pink kitten heeled sandals for the occasion (still sadly sitting in the shop) I’d have felt more comfortable, but I wasn’t, so I got off to a bit of a shaky start, confidence-wise.
Anyway, I ordered grilled peppered tuna steak for a starter (a safe bet, I thought, ‘cos I love tuna), and poached halibut and fresh veggies for my main course, and tried to ignore the fact that I was about to be served with £70-worth of food. We each sat there with our ‘Make Poverty History’ wristbands on, and I couldn’t help but wonder how many bags of maize could be bought for £70 and how many African children it could feed….but the meal was my boss’s treat, and she eats there regularly, so I felt churlish thinking that even if the food was gold plated it wouldn’t justify a £70 price tag. I couldn’t stop thinking it, but at least I didn’t say it, which is probably a step in the right direction.
Anyway, the starters came out and my tuna was raw! At least, it’d been flash-grilled on the outside, but inside it was all pink and squidgy and soft and wet-looking. Oh yuk. Yuk, yuk, yuk. I was just about to call the waitress back and tell her mine was raw, when I saw my boss tucking into her own tuna (equally raw) with much lip-smacking gusto…so I figured it must just be me being common, and that was how posh folks ate their fish. Me, I like my tuna well done, like a true English person…you can leave all that fancy sushi-eating malarkey to the Japanese, thank you very much. You don’t get sushi in a fish-and-chip shop, and that was how I got my introduction to fish, and nothing’s gonna convince me raw is better. Not that I’m narrow-minded or set in my ways, you understand… 
So anyways, I pushed my £25 piece of raw tuna round my plate (thankfully it was a tiny portion) and tried to cover it with the one broad bean and the shred of samphire that comprised the garnish so that it looked as if I’d ate some of it, and I began to wish I’d ordered something non-fishy for my main course…like a ham sandwich or something (heh heh).
Thankfully my boss seemed oblivious to my pickiness, and after what seemed like an age, the plates were cleared and the main course arrived. More raw bloody fish! The halibut (again thankfully tiny) was poached in milk and piled into a small island in the middle of a huge serving bowl, with four solitary capers and four carrots the size of a newborn infant’s pinkie finger strategically placed at the four points of the compass. WTF?!? Those couldn’t be the ‘veggies’ surely? And what about the chips and the tomato ketchup - heh heh only kidding, but you get my drift. This wasn’t food. Food is hearty and substantial, not bloody modern art! Maybe this is what I’ve misunderstood all these years?
Suffice it to say, I left the restaurant ravenous, having made a valiant effort to pretend the food was delicious. When my boss paid the bill - £185 for two starters, two main courses, one dessert (her), one sparkling mineral water (me), one glass of Chardonnay (her) I nearly cried on her behalf – what an outrageous waste of money for something so disagreeable! I had to remind myself that at least she’d enjoyed her meal (she ate every scrap) – and of course I was sparkling company (yeah, right). She’s going back there again tonight with her husband, so obviously it’s just me that’s a fussy cow, and who wouldn’t recognise good food if it jumped off the plate and bit me.
The whole meal, including bread rolls and desserts would comfortably have fit onto a modest sized dinner plate, with oceans of room to spare, so I guess that’s how the Paris Hilton’s and the Victoria Beckham’s keep their skinny figures – they don’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive! As it was, I tucked into a plate of toast when I got in, which just goes to show that you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear and that I'm destined never to fit into a size 0 outfit. What a bloody shame, huh?
