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.

Photo by Chris Liverani on Unsplash

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.