The other day, in my parents’ house*, I fancied some cereal. Lurking at the back of the pantry was a packet of something that looked vaguely interesting: grape nuts. The name led me to suppose, not unreasonably I think, that said foodstuff had something at least vaguely to do with grapes and/or nuts. Perhaps a couple of raisins thrown in there, or some almonds or hazelnuts or what have you. Hell, it didn’t exactly sound great, but surely it would be at least tolerable.
Not a bit of it. What greeted me instead was pretty much the worst thing I have ever had the misfortune of putting in my mouth. And believe you me people, that is saying something. When I say that it had the taste and texture of a ground-up brick, I am not indulging my taste for a frivolous simile – I mean it totally literally. And when I say I mean it totally literally, I am not using literally in the figurative sense. What I mean is this: it had the taste and texture of a ground-up brick. I may as well have gone out onto the driveway and munched on a load of fucking gravel.
After a couple of mouthfuls (I had more than one just to make sure that the first wasn’t some kind of bizarre aberration) I chucked the rest of the packet in the bin. My dad emailed me later in the day to say, and I quote: “you can’t just unilaterally decide to throw something away just because you happen not to like it.” Humble reader: I wholeheartedly agree. It was only the extreme, unprecedented circumstances that forced me, for the good of my family and everything I hold dear, to do such a thing. Let this be a maxim by which to live: loved ones don’t let loved ones eat grape nuts.
*OK, it’s my house too. I live with my parents. I write for AFB and live with my parents. This isn’t where I hoped my life would lead.