An English colleague once pointed out to me that I had a talent for telling half stories. No, I am not referring to fabrications of the truth. Unsure of whether I was granted this gift at birth or developed my talent over time, it seems that I am rather skilled in the art of driving my stories straight into an anti climax. Much like my sex life (that's a joke Mum because as discussed my hymen is still in tact), I start off with great gusto, fumbling my way through and desperately trying to remember Dolly magazine's step by step guide to a decent climax. There is always that point where you realise this is simply not going to be a success and just as you feel when you approach an orange traffic signal, there is that terrifying moment where one must decide whether to proceed with full force or shut the games down.
I once had a story about a salad. Munching very daintily on a piece of lettuce, I lifted a piece of cucumber off my plate only to discover an expired German cockroach lying below. In an attempt not to alarm my dinner partner, I placed the cucumber very slowly back on top of our new friend and tried to discreetly send it back to the kitchen. Easier said than done. Unfortunately our waitress didn't know the meaning of discreet and before I knew it, everyone was turning around to see the spectacle of the flat bodied insect. Nothing like a creepy crawly to turn you off your meal.
In retrospect, I didn't drink much back then. I drove everywhere and entertained myself with food and bugs, not always simultaneously I might add. In recent times it has become apparent to me that my best half stories involve big nights...........(insert desired ending here).
Your dinner partner quietly confessed to me recently that he personally augmented your salad with said deceased buggy... He told me he was concerned that, as no alcohol had yet been served you might not have enough to talk about and he desperately needed an ice breaker. He further noted that the cockroach wasn't actually German...it was Austrian.
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