Originally published in The Clifton Courier, May 3, 2017

I’m mildly concerned about my table manners.

As someone who currently lives in a situation that sees them mostly shovelling food into their face in front of their desk at of or on their couch in front of Come Dine With Me*, I’m rarely tested on my dinning etiquette.

* As you might have guessed by the admission that I often eat alone while watching four losers cook underwhelming meals and humiliate themselves all for the chance of winning 1000 pounds, I don’t have too many friends within an easily visit-able radius. And one of the actual friends I have here also loves that show to the point of expressing interest in hosting our own Come Dine With Me week. Make no mistake, it is an excellent program. I am willing to publicly and loudly put my support behind it. I hope it never ends. 

The other night I was digging into some hummus and, without the standard carrot sticks, crackers or crusty bread to dip into it, I just used my finger. I reasoned that this was the cleanest way to enjoy my favourite form of blended chickpeas, because fingers are a totally carb-free, fat-free, dairy-free and sugar-free means of shovelling hummus into my mouth.

It was abhorrent, but there was no one around to call me on it so I happily continued.

My parents used to be sticklers for table manners in those all important primary school years, but somewhere along the line they stopped rousing on me and my sisters for not using our knives and forks properly.

Perhaps it had something to do with them trying to avoid upset at a table with three girls going through puberty seated around it, or perhaps it had something to do with the ABC news hour syncing up with our dinnertime. Either way, we became a little slack.

It’s not that I don’t know how to wield cutlery appropriately, it’s more that I find myself being a little too casual when it comes to food.

I’m still mocked for that one time in high school when I picked up my slice of carrot by stabbing my longish fingernail into it and raising it to my mouth like my finger was a fleshy fork. That was one time, guys.

However, the other night, I realised that not only am I too casual, but I’m also a little vindictive.

A friend and I split a homemade*, Nutella and strawberry-stuffed doughnut for dessert and things quickly got out of hand.

* It wasn’t “homemade” but “restaurant-made”. I hate how restaurants insist on using this term. Unless the items have been brought over from someone’s house or that kitchen is also a residential dwelling, then anything with the tag “homemade” is a lie. And I know replacing the tag with “this wasn’t mass produced by a commercial supplier who plugs it with nasty preservatives” would be cumbersome, but maybe “made on site” would suffice? 

I knew my friend was lactose intolerant (although that doesn’t stop her eating chocolate, because she’s not a moron) so I naturally claimed the glob of ice cream as mine. And like Mufasa told Simba that everything the light touches belonged to him on The Lion King, I applied that same principle to the melted ice cream. Everything with the sweet, milky liquid coating it was mine for the taking, I reasoned. It didn’t want her falling ill from eating dairy, after all. I was just being a good friend.

So I savagely claimed what I told myself was mine, hacking at that deep fried delight like it was the faceless serial killer I sometimes imagine myself beating the crap out of when I need to apply more vigour to my jogs*. It was an absolute frenzy. Luckily, Nutella is too thick to fly at my face like blood, because otherwise I would have been covered in it.

* This is not a clinically tested truth, but imagining you’re stoping an attack with your sheer ire at the patriarchy does wonders for one’s physical output. Sometimes I’m wearing out-of-character combat-style gear, sometimes I’m kneeing a bastard in the face, other times I’m being straight out savage. My weapon of choice is usually a torn Sunkist can that I use as bad-arse flaying device to teach big jerks a lesson without killing them. I like to imagine emergency staff praising me while I shake it off. I’m kind of like a female Bruce Willis type person in these visions – I’m not out to be a hero, I’m just at the right place and the right time with just the right amount of fury and moral inclination to do the right thing. Long winded, yes, but I promise you this makes you run faster. Or at least feel as if you’re running faster. Perhaps I may conduct an experiment on myself.  

Not a particularly dignified way to conduct oneself.

But even though I may have been conquering that doughnut like a modern-day Alexander the Great, so too was my friend. Neither of us had the sense to cut the doughnut in half before tucking in. As such, there were no clear boundaries, so technically we were not invading each other’s territories.

She was staking her claim on the Nutella-soaked parts of the dessert, as I found the choclatey goo a little too much.

And while this meant she seized the last morsel of doughnut, I directed my assault on capturing the last of the melted ice cream and scraping up the decorative chocolate drizzle.

We both won, but I was in no way honourable in battle.

So what can I learn about from these horrific accounts of poor table manners in a bid to improve my conduct? In the case of the doughnut, the only solution I can think of is not sharing a dessert. In the case of the hummus, I recommend having amble dipping accompaniments on hand at all times.

Buying more bread and eating a whole dessert to myself? I can do that.