Eating red

A teeny story that came to me after the walk through the graffiti tunnel.

I been eating only red for a week now. It’s nothing the doctor told me to do. If I saw her she’d say the usual: try this or that drug, get more exercise, you’re not alone.

But I don’t know anyone else who has this problem: I only get hungry when there’s red on the plate. Redcurrants, strrawberries, rare steak (oh yes!) even radishes. Radishes are white on the inside so I have to eat them whole, but they taste red all the way through. Whereas red potatoes simply don’t count. A red taste has to be sharp, but a little sweet also. Think raspberries, watermelon, tomato.

Red is a flavour, but it’s also a buzz. The closest to taking a drug that a food can be. After staying on a colour-controlled diet all week, I’m miles better. My doctor would be proud.

A few weeks in, though, and the buzz is wearing thin. I’m getting pretty used to it. I can feel myself working up to needing some new redstuffs in my diet. Especially where drinks are concerned. I mean, face it, after a time even red wine and Bloody Marys lose their thrill. And there’s only so much cranberry juice a guy can take. It’s a girl thing, cranberry: something they take to calm themselves down when they’ve had too much fun of one kind or another. A sort of penance.

But I don’t want to calm down. I feel strong from eating all this red. Strong enough to move so fast you can’t even see me. You know where this is going, don’t you? Why you were asked round. Come, come, use your head. I’ve put out a charcuterie board laden with parma ham, carpaccio, serrano, salami. And now it’s your turn to add something to the party. None of this Pinot Grigio nonsense, mind. No, I need something that will keep up the buzz, keep me in the red zone. I need to try some…
blood!