meemalee

[This follows on from Specs ] Just before Christmas, my dad, the ophthalmologist, says to me, " I think it's time you had laser surgery ". I do a double-take (actually, it feels like a blood vessel explodes in my head), but I get over my shock quickly and I bounce to a phone to book a consultation. He's recommended a particular surgeon, and a fortnight later, I find myself waiting to speak to the man in question. A cheerful girl takes me to a room and she does a full eye test to check if my vision is stable. I don't have much of a bridge on my nose, so the clunky trial frames keep sliding down, and I end up having to prop them up with a finger. I hand her a list of all my prescriptions since time began, and she looks scared (" Oh god, a looney ") till I explain that my dad compiled them out of professional interest. She then scans me with a machine to measure the thickness of my corneas - the laser will be slicing into them, so the thic...

I used to have this recurring dream that I was at the most glorious buffet. I knew it was a dream as the food looked more beautiful, more luscious, more tempting than anything you could possibly imagine. I'd pile my plate high, and return to my seat, and just as I was about to dig in, I'd abruptly wake up. I don't think this means anything more profound than the fact that I am a pathetically greedy person. But the only thing I can think of that would be better than a buffet ( apart from this one ) is an all-you-can-eat that comes to me. And what an all-you-can-eat - men with meat - wielding huge whacking swords of the stuff (and we're back to the psycho-analysis). Rodizio -style churrascarias are a real dream; at these Brazilian steakhouses, an endless procession of butch, barbecued meat is brought straight to your table by the dashing passadores and carved onto your plate until you admit defeat. Rodizio Rico is such an establishment - unlimited 'prime cuts...

A long, long time ago, a scamp that I barely knew by the name of the Food Urchin caught me at a vulnerable moment and used some kind of Derren Brown-style trickery to convince me not only to make his dinner for him, but also to package it up and bring it to him. It turned out he had previous form, as a whole cavalcade of foodies had somehow been suckered one by one into providing sustenance for this miscreant under the auspices of something called Where's My Pork Chop ? What's worse is that, rather than be grateful for our offerings, he felt at liberty to criticise our food and he even began to court the MasterChef finalists , as apparently none of us were high-profile or sexy enough. The swine. Eventually, we could take no more, and we rebelled and demanded some recompense. Astonishingly, he more than rose to the challenge with his #WMPCIMU . Crank up the sound, watch the video and then join me in applauding the Food Urchin , for he is indeed the Fire Pit King. Incidentall...