This evening you find me sitting alone in my hotel room, surrounded by the leftovers of a rather ramshackle dinner. Seeing as I have very little else to do this evening, I’ll regale you with my culinary choices.
For a starter I had some kind of morrocan rice salad, wrapped with a label telling the consumer to"Be Good to Yourself". If that means stirring the lump of minty mayo stuff that looked like it arrived at great velocity from the outer reaches of the Van Allen belt into a pile of lentils and rice, then yesI was good to myself. I spilled some of it on the floor while trying to balance each fork-full between the plastic container and my mouth. Turns out sticky rice was more interested in sticking to the carpet than the fork.
For the main, I had Ramen noodles. Given that the hotel room has no cooker, and I didn’t fancy sitting in the bar on my own this evening in order to find something hot to eat, a pot noodle was the only real choice. Bear in mind that this was Ramennot a “Pot Noodle”. In the UK, “Pot Noodle” is the brand name of a vaguely edible pot of chemicals that look vaguely like they were noodles once, and had an enjoyable TV advert in the late 1990s involving a slightly strange Welshman.
I don’t think I’ll ever figure out how to eat ramen without the broth spitting everywhere as you attempt to cram the noodles into your mouth. I triedI really did. It felt like being five years old again. I don’t think I got any in my hair at least.
While figuring out what to do with the leftover ramen tub, I spied the box of Cadbury’s nutty brunch bars. Brunch. Yeah, right. I just ate three of them in a row. We’ll call that desert. I might eat another in a minute.
To wash it down, I’m drinking the leftover wine from last night. I bought a bottle of the cheapest wine available from the supermarket across the road when I arrived last night, and sat in bed watching back to back episodes of “Awkward” while drinking itwell until the headache appeared at about midnight, and I wandered down to reception to buy a bottle of Coke from the vending machine.
When the wine runs out, I’ll start on the malted milk drink I bought earlier. It’s called “Ovaltine”, and was the drink of my childhood. If we ever had a sleepover at my Nan’s house, we would always get Ovaltine before bed. Little did we know that hot drinks are like knock-out drops to small children.
So. It’s 7pm. What the hell am I going to do for the next four or five hours ?