Appetite

There’s something that I don’t understand. Why is it that relatives always want you to eat so much that you’re left unable to move and wishing some crane would come and pick you up?

When I was younger I used to dread meal times because I’d be given the largest plate of spaghetti and feel that I have to finish it. My aunt or whoever would look at me ever so often to check that I was consuming the half tonne of pasta. If it looked like I was struggling she would holler that I was ill or that perhaps some fever had affected my appetite. Twenty minutes later and I’m slumped on the chair just like Mojo the monkey from The Simpsons, barely able to breath because my body has shut down virtually all functions in order to digest the food I’d just consumed. It is only then that relatives are content that you are a healthy growing boy, although to me this is just irony at its best.

As I got older I started saying ‘no’ to portions that could feed a small family and I’d receive a scornful look. It wasn’t one of annoyance but more of disappointment, both in me and at their perceived failure to nourish me. With my normal portion of food I’m quite content but because I’m a fast eater I always finish first. Yet this prompts a nudge followed by large spoon of sustenance shoved in my direction. I raise my hands in protest and I get that look again, before some non-verbal communication enacted by patting my stomach ends the issue for the time being. In fact, I realised that in order to avoid the spoon scenario altogether I needed to lay my knife and fork down very carefully so that it makes no noise.

Recently I caved in and remembered just what it’s like to feel like Mojo again when I was visiting a relative. I had a huge piece of Shepherd’s Pie and scoffed it all like a famished dog. I think it was all gone in about four minutes. I forgot to lay the fork down carefully and it made a rattling sound on the plate. I was promptly asked if I wanted another piece. I still felt hungry and so nodded in agreement. What I was expecting was the final leftover piece, but instead, a whole new pie appeared from the oven and was given a piece larger than my original. Still I felt that I should at least attempt to eat it. Forty minutes later, I finished and I wanted to go to sleep. I’d not felt that full in years. I was practically waddling to the sofa and kept thinking to myself surely this isn’t healthy.


Thing is, I’m pretty certain that when I’m older this is exactly what I will do. In fact I better start taking notes, a male of 5’10 stature requires one plate the size of Ben Nevis. When the next generation arrives at my gaff I’m sure I’ll be there ready to dish out the food and will give ‘the look’ should someone refuse an extra dollop of goulash. It’s weird but I guess that’s what happens.

In other news, never go out wearing just one contact lens.