I used to know this guy (know—read, used to date, and am now ashamed of myself and therefore downplaying that fact) who liked to sit in the dark on his kitchen floor and eat sandwiches.
Now me, I have a philosophy on life, and it’s more or less a variation on, “if it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad;" I genuinely feel that way. And me, hey, I don’t care if you want to sit cross-legged in the dark, munching your way through an entire loaf of Warburtons. Enjoy.
But I’ve got this friend, and she, well, her philosophy is more like, “I’d rather laugh at you, than with you,” and she thought she’d died and gone to Heaven when she walked into her kitchen (her kitchen, he didn’t even have the decency to keep his dirty habits to himself) and saw him chowing down on a ham and cheese toastie. For the rest of our relationship, she wouldn’t call him by his name, just referred to him as ‘Secret Sandwiches’. Easygoing as he was, it eventually pissed him off. Open-minded and tolerant as I am, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing whenever she did it; especially after it started to piss him off.
In the end, he decided I didn’t make him happy, and buggered off, probably to find a girl who respects his right to be at one with the lino and wholemeal. So he left. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t that bad.
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