The antique grandfather clock in my mothers lounge chimed three loud times to indicate an hour when all normal folk were cosily tucked into their warm beds. As I stepped through the door, creeping on my tip toes so as not to make a noise my stomach roared with a colossal rumble and marked the arrival of the post-alcohol munchies.
My dearest friend who was gallant enough to share this night of dancing and debauchery with me was already passed out, thumb in mouth in the land of sleepy dreams and had left me, the now lone warrior to brave the greatest challenge of all – the creation of a delicious meal at 3am in a kitchen that belongs to a woman who does not believe in quick meals, junk food or BREAD!
As I manically searched through the cupboards like a scavenger of sorts my only lucky find was a packet of pasta! (Of course I now realise that you should NEVER be in close proximity to boiling water when one too many have been consumed) – I however learnt that the very hard way, burning my wrist mid-boil – though I do have a bit of a battle wound to prove it which is kind of cool I guess (Obviously if anyone asked about it I would make up an epic tale that included my battle against raging monsters and fire breathing dragons.)
After the burning saga I decided to give up on the pasta idea and again continued my rampant search, only this time through the fridge. After delving through the various shelves that contained very unsatisfactory foods (such as spinach, FAT FREE Bulgarian yogurt and a jar of gherkins) I came across a holy grail of sorts. I suddenly heard angels singing and a bright, almost heavenly light appeared in the fridge. I reached forward a few times, stumbling a little more with every manoeuvre and found myself clasping a leg of lamb that resided on the most sacred of plates. Suddenly all moral consciousness about the plight of animals disappeared from my mind and I took my first bite of meat in two years. I would like to say that it was at least a graceful affair and that I sat at the dining room table with a napkin, knife and fork in hand, candles a-blazing and ate the poor creature with a small shard of dignity but that would be a big fat porky pie (Is it worse to break ones vegetarianism on a leg of lamb or a pork pie?). No ladies and gentlemen, I devoured the poor thing in the most primal of frenzies imaginable. In my post-alcoholic and ravenous state I demolished that leg of lamb like a caveman (included of course in this elegant performance were pre-human grunts, my lying on the kitchen floor and fanatical facial expressions!) I then headed to bed, belly filled and warm, completely forgetting about my carnivorous blunder.
It was only the next morning when I awoke, to which my mother responded “It’s awake” (as if I were some monstrous creature and not her beloved daughter!) that I remembered the events of the previous evening – as if my frantic frenzy had momentarily returned a began to laugh like a maniac and recounted the events of the lamb incident to my mother, to which she responded “oh, I just chucked it away, I wondered what had happened to it, it looked really manky, like a little creature had gnawed it”.
Boys and girls, the moral of this Carnivorous catastrophe is simple really – After the consumption of one double whiskey and lime too many simply follow your very clever judgement and buy yourself a big, fat, greasy something or other from that little and slightly dodgy looking shop that is located on the corner of every pub crawl in every city. It will keep those hunger pangs at bay, avoid blunders in the kitchen and the violation of your once prized moral standards.