The Last Supper

This weekend just gone, we went to a great mate’s 50th Birthday. Now, I am always of the opinion that the hosts sets the tone for the event, and this couple are known for their wild shenanigans, so I was taking a softly, softly approach to my consumption of fermented beverages.

The theme was SUMMER and despite being on day two, AKA the DANGER DAY DON’T LEAVE THE HOUSE WOMAN, I thought I would take a risk for shits and giggles and wear Horatio’s Cricket Whites.

Nothing says summer more than cricket. Oh and natural disasters and unprecedented weather events, fires, floods and ineffective government. I thought I was being fabulously funny but when I arrived at the party, there were enough cricketers to take the field.

I met some lovely people, including a few readers (HELLO TO YOU!) and watched as Mr. Woog got merrier and merrier. When he gets merry, he giggles a lot and slaps his thigh A LOT.

I myself, had gotten to that point when it could have gone one of two ways. My evil subconscious was willing me to have another prosecco, and hit the dance floor despite the fact that it was very slippery and I was know for falling over on a slippery dance floor.

Mr. Woog’s giggling was going into overdrive so I called time at 11pm and booked a taxi.

When the taxi arrived, Mr Woog defaulted to his back of the taxi state and promptly fell asleep, leaving me in Chatty Cathy Mode with the driver, who turned out to like having a yarn as well.

He was from Turkey and had the best accent, big booming voice and the great ability to spin a tale. The perfect person to while away the 30 minute journey.

We started talking about food, and I told him about all the things I ate when travelling around Turkey, including, ironically, Turkey. I told him about contracting dysentry and how I could hear colours at one point. I told him that I had lost a lot of weight and from the head down, looked quite hot for a while.

Then I asked him the question that I tend to ask a lot.

If you were standing in front of your executioner, and you could eat just one thing, what would it be?

For example, I would eat the Salt and Pepper Lobster from Lees and wash it down with a bottle of Cloudy Bay.

“What would I eat?” My taxi driver pondered…. before declaring in a rather scary and alarming tone…

“I WOULD EAT THE EXECUTIONER AND THEN I WOULD EAT HIS GUN!”

And I laughed and I laughed and I laughed until a little bit of wee fell out.

What would be your last supper?