Just Turkey Dinosaurs and Beige Debauchery
When eating alone, your inner child comes out to play
There is no joy quite like feeding your inner child a plate full of unapologetic beige.
Picture the scene: your partner is out for the evening. You, ever the devoted fiancée, tell her she looks beautiful (because she does), dutifully drop her off at girls’ night, and ask her to text when she wants picking up.
You smile as she kisses you goodbye, her perfume lingering in the car as you drive away. You miss her already. It’s disgustingly codependent, but you’re fine with that. She’s your best friend. The love of your life. The only person on earth who can make you feel both adored and on the verge of a breakdown within the space of 5 minutes.
But there is one silver lining to girls’ night.
Dinner.
No compromises. No hmm, what do you fancy? No forced excitement at the prospect of vegetables.
Tonight, the gloves are off. You are a grown woman with a debit card and a hunger that can only be satiated by the kind of meal Gordon Ramsay would publicly slate you for.
That’s when you see it—the warm, glowing embrace of Sainsbury’s. You indicate left like a woman possessed, throwing the car into park with the urgency of someone responding to a national emergency. You step inside, heading straight for the frozen aisle. The domain of the beige.
Turkey dinosaurs are a given. Beans are essential—it’s the law. What if we went for a square sausage? Maybe a slice of black pudding? Is that overkill? Probably. Chips are the typical choice, but we’re not here for a bog standard meal. Tonight, there are no rules.
At that moment, a bag of potato smileys catches your eye. You haven’t eaten them since you were eight, but suddenly, it feels important that you do. You toss them in the basket without hesitation. The excitement mounts. You are frivolous. Chaotic. Primal, even. You’ll have the feast to end all feasts. Maybe even a beer—on a weeknight, no less. Maybe you won’t even go to bed until 10:30 p.m. Who knows? Oh yeah, you’re a rebel, alright—and it feels good.
At checkout, you survey your haul, quiet reverence tinged with smugness. Beige. Pure, glorious beige. No vegetables in sight. The colour of childhood, of unbothered hedonism. Forget drugs—this is a high you’ll be chasing for the rest of your life. It’s the thrill of a primary school meal doused in ketchup.
You smile to yourself as you tap your card. You may be a woman in her twenties, but tonight? Tonight, you are seven years old again. And it is magnificent.
Later, the car fills once more with her scent, the street lights catching the redness of her hair.
“What did you have for dinner?” she asks, fastening her seatbelt.
A beat barely passes before you launch into a giddy forensic analysis of your meal—textural contrasts, nostalgic undertones, the crispiness of the dinosaurs against the rich tang of ketchup. A flavour symphony. Truly a triumph of beige.
“You eat like an unsupervised child at a birthday party,” she sighs ruefully, suppressing a smile as she kisses your cheek.
What can I say? I walk on the wild side of the cholesterol line.