When the man who once upon a reckless time fell for you so hard he couldn’t breathe compares you to a meat pasty, you know things have changed. Specifically, it was a steak and ale pie. On a summer’s day. There’s really no good way to read this. Apparently, I’m intense (see left). Once he said it, I longed to be a tossed salad, or an ice-cold chardonnay. Anything that would be a little more desirable, and infinitely more palatable on a hot, sunny day. But then, as Eileen pointed out, he hadn’t specified what kind of summer he meant. A London summer’s day? Well a steak and ale pie could be quite a pleasing prospect, in that case. But I think we all know what kind of summer’s day he was talking about – he’s from Africa after all - and no positive interpretations can change it, as hard as the glass-half-fullers may try.
I don’t think anyone else sees me as a steak and ale pie. None of my friends have ever referred to me as particularly intense, or dense, or heavy even (there’d be smacks if either of the last two adjectives were used, let me tell you). And I’m certainly not rich. Is it possible that a certain kind of person can just bring out the steak and ale pie in you? Is it possible this genius of metaphor in question MADE me a steak and ale pie (not made me a pie – it’s summer after all and TOO HOT FOR PIES in case you didn’t realise - but made me INTO one, if you follow)? Will I be a steak and ale pie forever as a result, or is there a chance I can become an asparagus side dish grizzled with extra virgin olive oil in the future, depending on the diner - or indeed the weather?
In the midst of big happy work news and big happy life times in general, all I could think about last night was the steak and ale pie. I pondered his words - perhaps he was just a big fan of steak and ale pie, and was only thrilled to bits to have found it embodied in woman form. I pondered myself - wondering whether there was steak and aleness in me that I had not been aware of previously, that had grown over the years to take me over entirely. And wondering whether I could turn that into a good thing (I confess, I’m a glass-half-fuller myself). And wondering why he couldn’t see the ice-cream sundae in me that other people do (they do, they really do).
And as I lay there last night stewing on it (haha, stewing, geddit?), I could almost hear him laughing (in a diet cokey sort of way), and he was right. The proof was in the pudding (sorry, that was the last one, I promise). Me analysing my steak and aleness. Let’s face it – it’s such a steak and ale pie thing to do.