Real Life | 28 March 2009

This recession ought to suit me down to the ground because I hate anything that costs a lot of money. I’m the sort of person who sits in a Michelin-starred restaurant reading the menu and suddenly blurts out, ‘HOW MUCH!? Fifty pounds for a starter?! I’m not paying that!’ and summons the waiter to complain about the prices to the utter despair of my dining companion, who then has to work for the rest of the meal to re-assemble any vestige of style and elegance we might have had when we walked in. This is usually attempted by ordering the most expensive things on the menu while I loll around in paroxysms of agony, gripping at the Michelin-starched tablecloth and suffering an imagined angina attack brought on by fancy living. I then proceed to choke ostentatiously on the delicacies put in front of me and complain about the effect of the rich food on the balance of my digestive system for many hours, and sometimes weeks.