Gluttony

Food is a sacrament, W. has always believed, which is another reason why he thinks I am so disgusting. You have no sense of food, he says, you could be eating anything. For a long time, he remembers, I lived only on discounted sandwiches from Boots.

He remembers me telling him of my circumambulations of town in search of discounted sandwiches. Your long circumambulations, W. says, that would take in every possible shop that sold stale, discounted sandwiches.

For a long time, W. remembers, I ate only gingerbread men, five a day. I would buy a packet of five stale gingerbread men from the discount bakery and a fourpack of own-branded supermarket lager from Kwik Save, the very worst.

No wonder you were always ill, W. says. No wonder you were always complaining about your stomach. Of course, I was poor then, W. remembers, but that was no excuse.

Gluttony has always appalled W., who has a small and delicate appetite. He always undertakes special measures when I come to visit him, to make sure there's enough food in the house. It was part of the reason why he brought his new fridge, W, says.

When I text him from the airport to tell him I've arrived, he opens a bottle of Chablis or Cava and puts the glasses on the table, and then unwraps a block of Emmenthal and brings out his sliced meats, along with olive oil and relishes. He'll have bread, which he will have made himself, and slices of smoked salmon.

Only the best!, says W. Only the best for my friends! Food's a gift, W. says, the greatest of gifts, which I descecrate every time I visit him.