I like people. Really I do. Indeed, some of my best friends are people. But as that great wit, ballroom dancer and socialite Jean-Paul Sartre once pointed out, it is also the case that "hell is other people". Especially over dinner. Not all of them, of course. There are people with whom I love eating; without whom a properly laid table is not complete; whose very presence gives my greed a greater moral purpose. Or at the very least make me feel that I am feeding more than just my over-indulged stomach.
And then there are others. The ones who can ruin a good meal merely by being themselves. And who, somehow, always seem to end up sitting next to me.
Prime among these, top of the list I am writing for the day of the glorious revolution when I am finally installed as your dear leader, are: people who make eating noises. From time to time I am forced, professionally, to sit at a table with a noisy eater; someone who is meant to have taste, who has even been paid for his opinions.
He sits there, this chap, sloshing stuff around his gob, like a silage machine making free with this year's grass cuttings. It's a sound that can engender in me a physical response; which can make me want to leave a plate of food I am enjoying. Even of pork belly. Yes. It's that bad.
All I can think, while I'm listening to the noise, is: how the hell did you get to adulthood like this? Did nobody have the nerve to pick you up on this foul, infuriating slurping thing you're doing, with your lips parted, your tongue flopping about your mouth like a bull elephant seal hunting for a mate?
The obvious answer is of course not. Certainly I haven't had the guts to do it. Instead, ever the coward, I am venting my frustration by attacking anonymously. (NB Anybody with a nasal passage injury who wishes to complain that I am discriminating against them because they can't help themselves, might wish to cut out the middle man and write directly to popbitch.com)
Next up are the ones who manage to drag the edge of their knife against the shiny surface of their plate. Every single time they take a mouthful. The sound of metal on glazed china. Oh, God! Shoot me now. And coming up just behind them are those who, presented with a hamburger, reach for the knife and fork. Just pick the damn thing up. With your hands. Those dangly things at the end of your arms. Our hands are why hamburgers were invented. Just how uptight do you have to be to eat a hamburger with a knife and fork?
Of course what I live most in fear of is someone who, served a hamburger, scrapes their knife and fork across the plate while cutting it up and then eats it with their mouth open. For them, a special place in hell has been reserved.
Some of you might think that all this says far more about me than it does about those I criticise. You may have a point. It may explain why I do so love eating in restaurants alone: a great plate of food, a good bottle of wine, no one to see me spill sauce down my shirt.
Did I mention the sauce spilling thing? I didn't? Don't worry. It's no biggie. You'll get used to it. In time. People, eh. They really are a nightmare, aren't they?
