I just ate lunch. Pretty ordinary thing to do, huh? Except that it went like this:

Me, talking to me: I’m hungry - what can I have?

Me: How about potato cakes?

Me: Good idea!

Me: Oh no … they’ve got green spots on, despite being dated tomorrow!!

Me (absent-mindedly nibbling on a handful of the Food Doctor’s original seed mix): Can’t eat those, then.

Me: Nope, have to think of something else.

Me: (opening drawer to reveal secret cache of Cadbury’s chocolate buttons and stuffing some into mouth): How about cheese on toast?

Me: I’m not supposed to be eating bread, remember?

Me: (feeding a few short lengths of liquorice - found in drawer alongside chocolate buttons - into mouth): So what?

Me: Oh well, this will have to do.

*Stuffs food under grill*

A short while later …

Me: Do these sardines taste funny to you?

See, I’ve always had this problem. When I’m depressed, I eat. If the right food isn’t immediately available, I eat the wrong food and I eat plenty of it.

So you want to know the end of that sentence up there in the title? Alrighty then. Take a deep breath, it’s a long one:

‘You know you’re depressed when you refuse the chance to watch a Johnny Depp movie on the grounds that you can’t eat and watch him at the same time, and you have a date with a large bowl of triple chocolate ice cream mixed with coffee ice cream, with chocolate buttons sprinkled on top, three Cornish wafers on the side, and a hot chocolate chaser.’

Remember Crotchety Old Man’s post about ‘Questions from the ladies’? Remember my answer to it? Remember how Yellow Swordfish took exception to something I said (can’t think why) and came along making pithy comments?

Yesterday started out well. I got up early, took the dogs out, dressed the Princess in her finery and took her to her therapy appointment, and drove happily back for lunch. I was looking forward to the afternoon, because we had another riding lesson booked at the Western stable, and I do so love riding Western style.

I’m trying to eat healthy food. I gained a bit of weight on holiday, and I’m desperately trying to lose it again - without a huge amount of success, I have to say. So, I prepared myself a bowl of fresh fruit, followed by a bowl of soup, and I sat down and tucked in. Fresh pineapple! Mmm! Fresh strawberries and blackberries! Mmm! The pineapple made my throat tingle a bit, but hey, it was a little sore yesterday and pineapple is acid, so I didn’t worry too much about that. Soup next. Three bean and lentil! Mmm ….

But wait! What is this unsettled, churning feeling in my stomach? Hmm. Maybe I didn’t need all that soup. I stopped eating, took my dishes out to the kitchen and called out to OH that I was going upstairs to change ready for riding.

Next thing I know I have my head down the loo* and I’m throwing up for England.

I thought I was going to die. I had visions of myself on a gurney, being wheeled through A&E** on the way to get drips inserted to rehydrate me only to discover that I had botulism and it was All Futile.

OH appeared, alerted by the groaning and swearing, probably. He offered to call a doctor or an ambulance - that’s how bad I was, and he is a Jolly Nice Chap, as I keep telling you. I said ‘Just bring me a bucket, I need to lie down’. And that’s where I stayed for the next hour or so, face down on the bed, with my head in the bucket (a change of view is always nice), alternately sipping water and throwing it up again.

Eventually it stopped, of course, as these things do, and I realised that I probably wasn’t going to die. Not this time, anyway. Eventually, when I stood up, nothing much happened except a slight dizziness, and I was able to change into nightwear and drift off to sleep.

Other Half was a trooper, he really was. He rang to cancel the lesson, he brought me water and a cold, wet flannel*** without being asked, he left me to sleep and even emptied and rinsed out the bucket.

When I staggered downstairs, he made me a cup of tea, and kept checking to make sure I was OK and didn’t need anything. He even offered to go to the shop at 8pm to fetch me anything I might fancy. Luckily, we already had all I needed: Heinz Cream of Tomato soup and bread for toast. Not, I hasten to add, the travesty that passes for tomato soup in America - that would Not have been Good. The stuff tastes like ketchup! No, Heinz Cream of Tomato with toast is the thing to eat after throwing up, and there’s science to back me up, too. It’s full of salts, the main one you need being potassium. It tastes good and it makes you feel better .. as long as you don’t overdo it.

And so it was that as I sat feebly huddled in my chair, OH brought me a large dinner plate on which reposed a perfectly heated bowl of Heinz’s best, and four perfectly toasted triangles of hot toast. I wish I’d taken a picture, it looked so pretty! He even provided me with a piece of kitchen paper to use as a napkin!

So I just want to say that despite my occasional digs and smart comments about men in general, and mine in particular, I do have one of the best. Please give the man a round of applause. For those of you who have men who need a little help in becoming more like him, I’m sure he’ll be willing to provide online lessons (for a fee). You can find him over at Yellowswordfish. Tee hee. That should put his traffic up a bit.

Why do I blame the pineapple you ask? Because I ate some of the strawberries, the blackberries and the soup yesterday with no ill effects. Methinks a trip to the Public Health inspector might be in order. Someone should Suffer for This.

Oh, and by the way, can anyone explain to me how the hell I came to gain two pounds yesterday? Sheesh …

* English slang for toilet

** English for ER

*** English for washcloth

Once upon a time there was a very nice man. He had a fairly uneventful childhood and grew up to be kind to children and animals - you know the sort of thing. And then, lo! The Nice Man married a Nice Girl and they had two children and took out a mortgage on a Nice House in the country and got a kitten and it all looked very idyllic.

And then the drinking started.

For a long time, nobody knew about the drinking. The Nice Girl always looked pretty and happy and bright and normal, but the Nice Man started to refuse social engagements to the point where his family would invite him to weddings and parties but they knew that he wouldn’t turn up, and neither would the Nice Girl.

So time went on, and still nobody but their very closest friends knew about the problem. Actually, I doubt that even they - no, not even his family - knew the true extent of the problem, because things had got very bad indeed. We are not talking about ordinary social drinking, let me make that clear. We are talking about wheelie bins full of White Lightning empties from a single evening because nothing else was available. We are talking about people having things thrown at their head, punched, kicked and slandered in public because of the ravings of an alcoholic. We are talking about someone dancing barefoot on broken glass and not feeling a thing because they were so, so out-of their-head drunk. We are talking about a real, honest-to-goodness alcoholic. Who wouldn’t admit that there was anything wrong with her behaviour at all.

Oh, yes, dear readers. It may come as a surprise to you, but it was the Nice Girl who had the problem.

For years, the Nice Man did what he could. He smiled and gritted his teeth and cooked and cleaned and shopped and took the children to the doctor and made sure they did their homework and attended school concerts when work allowed. In short, he did a damn fine job of being a single parent, within his dysfunctional marriage. And he had quiet words with the Nice Girl’s friends and asked them to please watch out for her when she went out without him, and he made sure not to keep any alcohol in the house, which of course did absolutely no good at all, because alcoholics are very good at finding supplies.

So why am I telling you this now? Because last week, she - the alcoholic, but still possibly nice-underneath-it-all, girl, moved out. She upped and left home.

The children chose to stay with their father, who breathed a sigh of relief and changed the locks. He would never have left her, but now he can have his life back, and the children can come home without wondering what they’re going to find when they open the door.

It is a very sad fact that no-one can help an alcoholic until they face the fact that they have a problem.

So far, this woman, once so pretty and bright, has not done that.

This time last year, I spent a week in LA having a great girly week with my Johnny Depp friends while OH explored the Grand Canyon and Utah, meeting up with his own internet buddies. Then we flew up to Vancouver to see his brother and spent another week there.

If you’re ever in Vancouver, go and eat at the Al Porto, in Gastown. Just do it. Go and find the Al Porto ristorante Italiano. It doesn’t look much from the outside, but the food is out of this world. And that’s not their only claim to fame.

We chose the place at random. Dead on our feet from sightseeing, and starving to death, I tripped over the board standing out on the pavement and staggered over to examine the menu. Looked good! We gazed up at the front of the building. Didn’t look very good at all, but what the heck, we were hungry and tired and there were seats inside.

And indeed there were. Upstairs, in that rather plain looking building, there was a quietly bustling, and really rather nice-looking restaurant with white tablecloths and everything. A grey-haired waiter appeared promptly, and taking in our travel-stained shorts and trainers, showed us to a table at the back. But oh, so very tactfully, and with a smile.

And that’s when the fun began.

Our waiter arrived. A different waiter. This one looked a little bit like an updated and improved version of a young John Travolta. Tall and dark with a million-watt smile and a decided twinkle lurking behind his extremely deferential air, he brought our menus, and made eye contact. He inspected the table to make sure it was perfect - and when he saw OH examining his cutlery with suspicion, he immediately returned with an air of wounded concern, eager to know how he had failed in his waiterly duties.

I said ‘It’s OK, my husband has a thing about tines’ and explained that crooked forks gave OH the heebie-jeebies, so all forks had to pass The Scrutiny.

The waiter smiled with complete understanding. That fork got replaced faster than you can say ‘Garçon!‘ and that set the tone for the evening.

Having multiple allergies, I have to enquire about many menu items, and this guy handled it. He didn’t sigh, or tut, or say ‘I don’t know’, he listened with a tiny crease between his brows, head tilted in my direction and an air of total absorbtion. He strode elegantly off to the kitchen, not once, but many times, to give the chef the third degree. He made suggestions. And what’s more, he managed to joke about it all with me, without once giving the impression that he was taking it as anything but a life-and-death matter.

The bread basket arrived with a smile, and a genuine, top-shelf, hint of a flirt. And it was amazingly delicious. The bread was delicious, I mean, although it had been so long since anyone had flirted with me that I found that pretty nice, too.

We ordered bruschetta. Oh, my. That bruschetta was something else. The bread was clearly made on the premises for the purpose and the flavours of garlic and tomato and parmigiano just exploded in the mouth. I shouldn’t even be eating bread in the first place, but … aaaaaahh!! It was irresistible!

Our waiter was delighted by our delight. He beamed, and he twinkled charmingly.

I can’t remember what OH ordered, but I went for the free-range chicken breast, which came with perfectly cooked vegetables and crushed potatoes, if I remember rightly, but who cares? It was amazing. Just delectable! And the waiter was overjoyed that we were happy, and stayed to exchange a little banter. He was quick, and funny, and made me feel like the wittiest person in the room, although OH didn’t do too badly either.

‘I wonder which school of waitering he went to?’ OH was heard to mutter, as the elegant black-clad rear disappeared happily once more.

I looked at him. He was smirking.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Haven’t you noticed?’ he said. ‘You’re the one whose glass gets filled as soon as you put it down.’

I looked at his half-empty wine glass and my own brimming one. Oh. Tee hee!

From then on, I have to say, I enjoyed myself. I don’t usually throw caution to the winds and flirt with strange men in front of my husband, but this guy was just so good at it - and OH sat there smirking and quietly enjoying the show, only now and then making barbed comments under his breath which made me choke with laughter and probably gave the departing garçon a brief moment of insecurity.

The guy was pretty cool. Although I think I shook him a little when he brought the serrated knife with my meal and I pounced on it and waved it in the air, pronouncing ‘Now, that’s what I call a knife!’

But at the end of the meal, when we sat smiling our Cheshire Cat smiles of perfect repletion and he came to ask if we’d enjoyed the meal, we did, at last, manage to shake his unflappable calm.

‘It was the best meal I’ve had in years!’ I gushed.

‘It was great!‘ said OH. ‘It was so good, that I want to shoot the chef, and she wants to have your babies!’

The million-watt smile became the tiniest bit fixed and he froze for a fraction of an instant, but he recovered quickly and laughed with us. However, when we went back later in the week he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

The following conversation ensued.

Me: I can’t see that waiter we had last time. Do you remember him?

OH: Oh yes. I remember him well. With his long, slicked back hair and his smile and his perfume.

Me: He was wearing perfume? I didn’t get close enough to find out!

OH: Oh yes. It was Eau de Waiter. No - make that Eau de Bastard.

Pause.

OH (hopefully): Perhaps he’s been sacked?

Me: Any restaurant that sacked that waiter would have to be insane.

OH: Mmm.

Me: Perhaps we frightened him off?

OH: Sweetheart, no-one who was easily shocked or embarrassed would be behaving as that boy was behaving with you.

I’m not convinced. But anyway. I can’t guarantee an evening of delightfully naughty flirting, but do go there if you can. The food really is incredible.

At least, it was last year. It’s almost worth another trip to Vancouver, just to find out.