I reached for the
pot. It was the main course. A lovely Moroccan stew, with cloves,
garlic and a hint of oreganum. My favourite ingredients. It was full
and heavy, but I braced myself and lifted it, and placed it gingerly
over the offending woman’s head. I stood back, not only to admire
the view, but to avoid any backlash from her. The pot rim reached
right down to her chin, and the rich, thick stew flowed luxuriously
over her shoulders and chest. She was struck dumb, so I reached for a
potato that had come to rest on one breast. It was cooked to
perfection, the chilli coming through onto the palate nicely against
a background of ginger and basil. I thought everyone would be as
satisfied as me with the result, but I was mistaken. Her neurotic
friend was shouting blue murder and hurried over, lifting the pot
from the head it had fitted so well. She embraced her tasty brown
friend, which, in a moment of weakness, I thought I should do too.
Pity to waste all that stew, although the job it had done was an
excellent one. Eventually the more nervous members of the dinner
party calmed down enough for her to tell me she hated me. It was then
that I said to our gracious host, “I’m going to need that dessert
too.”.
