I call this the scotch egg gate, but it could easily be referred to as just another conversation between my boyfriend and I.
I suppose this argument stands out in my mind because it’s made me question my own gluttony (which, up until this point, I’ve had nothing but respect for) and it also only happened 40 minutes ago and I’m now just killing time before bed. I could just go to sleep but, if I forget all boundaries of social decency, I can’t do that because I’m currently in that weird limbo of being very gassy and needing a poo but also not so much in need of a poo that I can actually have one. Ladies, if that phrase disgusts you, you really need to look in a mirror because the woman staring back has probably dealt with something similar.
Seriously, all women are constipated. That’s just a fact of life. It’s actually quite depressing when you sit down and think of all the ways a woman’s body hates her. Take myself for instance. It’s bad enough when my period arrives but when it does my body also takes it upon itself to shit non-stop. I’m talking like Mt. Snowdon size craps. Think fecal matter hemorrhaging out of one end while at the front I’M BLEEDING! I mean, really, what did I do to deserve such horror? All men have to go through is baldness (which actually, considering how awful my boyfriend would look bald, is pretty shitty). Oh, and they die younger, cause of heart problems and all that. But still – massive period shits! WTF?!
Anyway, where was I before I started talking about my bowels? (A phrase I say on a weekly basis BTW) Oh yes, the scotch egg. So basically we had just had a Thai curry before we entered the pub and I said to Him that I quite fancied a dessert of some kind. A perfectly reasonable statement. So we go the bar and they have these massive scotch eggs on offer.
Now a thing you need to know about me is that I bloody love scotch eggs. Mini versions (AKA party eggs) are my favourite but I do also enjoy a fancy GASTRO PUB version when the occasion is right. If it were up to me, I would hide mini scotch eggs all around my home and place of work so that I could pick them up throughout my daily travels as a ‘keep going’ snack. Of course, everyone would hate me if I did that because eggs (annoyingly) smell really bad. Let my current fart situation be testament to that.
So I’m famous for loving scotch eggs. That’s a thing of mine. Which means when I say ‘oh yeaaaah, a scotch egg’ at 7pm after I’ve been out for Thai, I’m CLEARLY making satire out of myself. I don’t actually want a scotch egg.
Now imagine my amazement when two drinks later He appears we a scotch egg and the excuse “oh I needed to meet the card limit”. Meet the card limit? Mate, I now have to eat a pound of sausage, breadcrumbs, and egg on a full stomach!
(Real time update: as I reach this sentence I’ve just come back from the toilet. The bowels have been evacuated, you can all breath a sigh of relief. My arse has.)
And it’s not like I could have just let that scotch egg just go to waste. That would be grossly out of character. People would think I was dying and go through a process of grief. Or call MI5 and report an impostor – costing taxpayers money! So I had to eat nearly the entire thing – barring some of the actual egg itself (but to be fair it’s the sausage casing where the real love and devotion have gone into the craft). I even dropped some of it on the floor in a food-drunk inebriation and then put the egg droppings in a pint glass.
Bar staff look at you very judgmentally when they find bits of egg in your empty glass. Sorry I’m not cool enough to not drop my gastro pub egg on the floor. Sorry my working-class roots are showing, sir!
Anyway, my boyfriend is now home and he keeps telling me that writing this blog is pointless and that despite committing over 700 words to this piece that nothing has actually been said. Other than I ate a scotch egg and felt very full. This is indeed correct but who’s more easily judged – the writer of the nothing or the reader of the nothing? *puts on philosophical beard and strokes it while making ‘hmmm’ noise*
I’m totally joking, of course I’m to blame. Me and Jenny Lawson – who is such a master of saying too much that she makes you feel like you can do the same in your blog. SPOILER: You totally can’t because your loved one will sit next to you in the bed making disapproving air noises through his nose.
Speaking of disapproving air… *insert final fart joke here*