Scotch eggs... Need I say more?
Well, I probably should seeing as you’ve come all this way.
His name was Dominic. I liked the idea of a Dominic. The name has a certain something to it, don’t you think? Far superior to your standard, common-or-garden boyfriend names – your Robs, your Dans, your Toms. But not too posh, like a Hugh or a Henry. Or a Percy. The kind of man who might exclaim ‘gosh!’ or ‘crumbs’ as he climaxes and whose parents’ chromosomes met long before they did. Yes, I could see myself with a Dominic. “This is my boyfriend/fiancé/husband (delete as applicable), Dominic”, I’d say. “Dominic’s whisking me away on a long weekend in Devon...” “Dominic’s dropped the kids off at mum’s while we go to Waitrose...”
“Dominic’s taken a restraining order out on me...”
So, yeah, it was all about Dominic for a time there. Until he decided to dump me, that is.
Now, I’m pretty good at getting dumped – or, indeed, doing the dumping – if I do say so myself. Beginnings and endings are my thing. It’s the middle, 'the muddle' – after the high of that sickly sweet start, but before the nauseating sense that the end is nigh sets in – which always seems to elude me. Being dumped is a breeze. For me, it’s expected. Obvious. I pride myself on taking it well – few tears, no drama. When we next bump into each other, it’s all smiles from me – the best form of revenge is when they want you back.
And if and when the boot’s on the other foot, I’m happy to do the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ routine. I hate confrontation. Hell, I’ve even been known to claim I’m indefinitely busy until you take the hint. The 12th of never? Nope, afraid I can’t do that date either. Anything other than confess it’s because you’re crap in bed or persist in sporting long hair when you’re going bald beneath.
So I believe you should be mindful of other people’s hearts. But also that there’s a certain etiquette to kicking someone to the curb. So when dear Dominic summoned me to his one Wednesday night, I suspected nothing. He lived in Islington and, I, in Southfields, for Christ’s sake! I was expecting pizza and a mid-week shag. Surely, Dominic wouldn’t – couldn’t – drag me umpteen tube stops across town and back to ditch moi?! But, yes, he could and he would, folks. 24 stops it is from Angel to mine – four-and-twenty long and lonely stops...
By the time I’d reached the corner shop to buy a bottle (or two) of pinot, I’d simultaneously reached breaking point. Taking my vino to the till, I also had the foresight to grab a cucumber (so as to start my obligatory Diet To End All Diets the very next day) as well as request a pack of paracetamol from the shopkeep (for the inevitable hangover that would inevitably inhibit the successful start of the Diet To End All Diets and instead cause me to eat three Danish pastries before noon). The shopkeep eyed my purchases. Two bottles of wine, a cucumber and a box of painkillers... “You’re in for a quite a night,” she observed. “I’ve just been dumped!” I sobbed. “In Islington!” I’m not sure whether that helped or hindered her notions as to what I might have planned for my purchases, but hey-ho.
I had hope. For, you see, it was him and not me. Yep, I was in denial. So when, three weeks and several bottles of wine later, there was talk of a picnic amongst mutual friends, I thought fuck it – what have I got to lose? I’ll bring – nay, make – some scotch eggs. Bring out the big guns. What better proof of my potential wifey credentials than that? What better way to win him back? Homemade scotch eggs.
Next post: recipe and conclusion...
Illustration by Bex Barrow.
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