Thursday, 27 August 2009

Special K Masochism continues

Earlier posts in the series:

The Worst Picnic Imaginable.
(Enid Blyton was wrong. Food does NOT always taste better out of doors.)

There is a word that is used by the good people of Belfast (and perhaps further afield – I know not). A fine, expressive word.

That word is gankin'

And gankin' is exactly how I would describe the aroma that hit me when, for the second time today, I unfurled the inner packet of my Special K. It was a woeful smell. A smell that presaged, if not doom, then at very least sensory discomfort of a moderately high order.

It was the most depressing thing I have smelt in a long time. When you read this, bear in mind that I sometimes have to go into the boarding house bedrooms of male sixth form students.

And my sense of smell – the warning sense – had not failed me. Because what followed was undoubtedly the worst lunch I have ever had.

You know how I wrote, earlier today, that the taste of Special K wasn't that bad, really?


Now, thanks to Kellogg's, I have experienced a new kind of sensation of bodily ambiguity. And it is this: simultaneously feeling ravenously hungry and repulsed at the thought of eating another mouthful.

And, post-'lunch', I have the same sensation in my stomach as I used to get before playing a cello solo in the school music competition when I was about 10. It's not a nice sensation, in case you were wondering.


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