I eat Nutella with a spoon.
I eat Nutella with a spoon.
I do.
The kaleidoscope of additives mixed in with that smidgen of milk, chocolate and hazelnuts coats my mouth and everything immediately becomes better; like when an Adam Sandler movie ends.
Frequently this ritual happens just before bed or while I’m groggily waiting for my shot of Espresso to spurt into my mug. I am usually in a state of undress and, at that very moment, am totally alone in the world with my thoughts.
No one is impressed with me eating Nutella with a spoon. I earn no CPD points.
Even with a perfect sunrise in the background or moonlight elegantly dancing off of my bare arse — it’s not picture perfect.
It’s not a statement or a movement or a cause worth supporting or fighting against.
It’s not likeable, shareable, interesting, intelligent, creative, healthy, funny, sick or politically charged.
I’m not concerned about being called out as a ‘leftie’ for it. Or worried that people on ‘the right’ do it too.
The gangs of people ready to take offence on Twitter, can’t.
Brexit, in that moment, means nothing.
I earn no money from eating Nutella with a spoon.
I could spend an extra moment with my kids, or spend it spontaneously telling my wife I love her. I could.
But I don’t do that. I instead choose to eat Nutella with a spoon.
No one benefits from this act. It’s entirely selfish.
I’m not mindful either. I’m not savouring every single sensation to the point where I seem curiously aroused by it.
I’m just shoving it in my gob, hastily and greedily.
It’s fucking important.
