I’m staying in Crouch End at the moment, aka the land of the healthy snacks. As the masses filter through Budgens, Marks and Spencer and Waitrose to find their quinoa gluten-free kale flavoured crisps, I’m just looking for a party with some fat content. It’s hard enough paying 45p for a curly wurly, never mind £2.69 for something called ‘Goodness! Gracious! Me!’ that abuses the right to use an exclamation mark.
My friend gave me a pity tenner because she couldn’t stand to see what I was eating. I tried to sate her concerns by purchasing a cheese and bacon roll, priced 29p. Not only am I meant to be flirting with vegetarianism once more (seven years on, one year off), but the item in hand had a staggering 78% fat label. It was red and angry. Its blatant alarm made me laugh. I scoffed its salty contents without even opening and closing my mouth. It’s a special technique of mine that I wheel out at parties if you ask really nicely.
Whilst we indulge in some good old artery clogging, my mother texts me and my sister. ‘Live for now, girls!’ she says. I don’t think she realises that a chunk of brie and some pringles is as good as it gets. At least the mortgage conversation is off the table for once. Last week, we told her we were not sure if we could be bothered to have kids. Life is short and we’re far too self-deprecating, self-indulgent… self everything, really. It costs £6000 to freeze human eggs. £6000. Little do we realise what tragic bargains we acquire from the Happy Egg Co.
‘£6000?!’ My mum splutters.
We affirm this over the medium of text.
‘Just freeze a couple then. Start coughing up.’
My sister passes me some more pringles. We decide to divert her attention by talking about our cousin’s sister’s brother’s mother’s uncle’s dog, which bears a fascinating propensity to rear children.
78% plus 78% is… well, I scraped a B in GCSE Maths.