I can’t believe I am thinking this out loud but: Am I too old for curry? Because I feel most peculiar. It’s a kind of burning. Combined with a definite bloating. And a sense of impending doom. This never used to happen. Curry was like mother’s milk to me. But all is not well. All is most definitely not well. It can’t be the sag daal. It must be a bug. Am I ill? I don’t think I am but it can’t be the curry because if I am too old for curry then I’m going to have to re-think all sorts of things. People who are too old for curry are too old for overdrafts and too old for rude sex. I’ve been operating on the assumption that there were all sorts of possibilities still open to me. But too old for curry means gardening, doesn’t it? And saying things like, “I don’t understand this music.”
Is this one of those tiny signs that my body is starting to prepare for death? One of many mini-shutdowns. I used to sort of pride myself on my digestive efficiency. When other people muttered about lentils or artichokes or ‘rich’ food I was genuinely baffled.
But now I look at menus in a different way. I find myself thinking that over-eating– as well as making me fat in the long-term – may make me sleepless and pretty disgusting in the shorter term. Is it ‘simple fayre’ from here on in. Or should I say ‘here on out’? Am I on a conveyor belt towards pureed chicken and semolina? No. I defy that. I’m ordering some probiotics, some Rennie and a nice Jalfrezi. Just to show I still can. Because, if I can’t, who am I?