I cooked the dinner last night.
There is nothing strange in that as I cook dinner most nights. I don’t have the luxury of a slave to test my food before I eat it so cooking it myself is the best way to avoid being poisoned.
Herself was flicking through this site and grunting. Occasionally she will tell me that I have written a good one [and they are generally the ones that garner the least interest] but most of the time she tells me I complain too much. She’s complaining that I complain? A nice touch of irony?
“Why don’t you write something decent?” she asks.
“Everything I write is decent.”
“Write something different. Write from the heart. Write with some passion. Write about something interesting.”
“Write about that onion you’re cutting up.”
“For fuck’s sake! No one is interested in a fucking onion. An onion is an onion and nothing more can be said about it. I doubt you could pick a more boring subject on the face of the planet. Or any other planet for that matter.”
“But it looks like a nice one and I’m sure you could write something about it?”
I told her to fuck off and went back to my cooking.
She did have one point though.
It was a beautiful onion.
It was one of those Spanish ones and was big, firm, perfectly spherical and a lovely golden colour. Mick down the vegetable stall knows I like ‘em big and firm and he keeps the best ones for me. Fuck off onions, he calls them and this one he classed as a fuck off fuck off onion. I could almost feel it cleaning out my pipes as I chopped it. The very act of peeling it caused a ripper of a fart that echoed around the kitchen.
It was delicious. Slightly undercooked to give it a touch of a bite. These’s enough to last for another day or two as well. And it had the desired effect this morning. I like to keep regular.
But write about it?
No fucking way……