Meat to Please You

I'm reluctant to relay this particular bit of bilious bloggery. If I'm not careful, I'll serve-up a slice of sub-Clarkson anti-other, anti-difference, anti-youth, anti-feeling antilife... aintalife. The narrative arc of my story seems to have been moulded in middle-England, a small village on the outskirts of Mail-on-the-Wold. I know, I know... you get the picture ... get on with it. All I can say is that the following really did happen...

I'm reminded of this story because Char just made a delicious vegetable lasagne. It got me thinking that it was probably the first vegetarian dish I'd eaten for about a year. I can't quite remember if it was actually a new year's resolution, but I flirted with the idea of becoming a vegetarian. Whichever way you dress it up, slaughtering an animal just because you feel peckish isn't a particularly civilised thing to do. I was reading Scarlett Thomas' excellent novel Popco at the time, which contains incredibly convincing arguments for veganism, and I thought I might give vegetarianism a try as a first step.

I had one fear. I was terrified that if I did succeed, I might turn into a stereotypical, preachy, dogmatic vegetarian. I didn't want to be smug or superior. I just wanted to stop eating dead creatures.

Supportive as ever, Charlotte agreed to try the first non-meat eating week with me. As we glided around Tesco, (admittedly, quietly, fuelled by a vague sense of moral well-being), we filled our trolley with exotic fruit and vegetables, expensive tofu sausages and Linda McCartney vegeburgers. The value of the shopping added-up to £40 more than it would on a normal week. I'd imagine it must be the same feeling a smoker gets when they shell-out for nicoteen patches: 'this will work, I've spent a bloody fortune.'

Just before we got to the checkout, we realised that we'd already invited Char's brother, Charles to join us for Sunday dinner. We didn't think it was fair to impose our new-found veggyness on him, so we grabbed a lamb cutlet, and perched it on top of the veg mountain in our trolley. As such, the cutlet was the first item on the conveyor belt. Unfortunately, it leaked a tiny bit as the teenage assistant picked it up:

"Argh! That's disgusting. I'm covered in blood - do you realise I'm a vegetarian?"

As it left her lips, the word sounded so holy, so fucking righteous. I knew at that moment, hers wasn't a club I wanted to join. I couldn't have been more annoyed if she'd said "do you realise I'm a Christian?"

Of course, I was too cowardly to protest my innocence. And of course, the friendly checkout assistant didn't even notice that all of our subsequent purchases came from the ground, the tree or the Mull of Kintyre. I bit my lip, and loaded our bags-for-life. 

We ate and enjoyed all of the meals we cooked that week, but my fate was sealed. Someone (Bernard Matthews?) had sent me a message that day, and I returned to my old carnivorous ways the following week, killing for snacks.

I'd like to think I could try vegetarianism again sometime. If I do, I'll order online.