The souvenirs of a tikka masala, tomato sauce or a Chinese meal down your shirt front are nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it should be a badge of pride
Recently, in a restaurant, I saw something astonishing. It’s not an uncommon something; I see it regularly. It just always astonishes me. What I saw was a middle-aged man in a white shirt, rising from a table, having finished dinner. And there was not a single sauce stain on him. Not a drip or smear, not a dollop or splatter. It was just one crisp snowfield of pristine linen.
How, in the name of all that is holy – and quite a few things that aren’t – does this work? Because I seem completely incapable of leaving a table without everyone being able to read, from the full Jackson Pollock across my chest, exactly what I’ve just had for my tea. Ah, so you went for the bouillabaisse followed by the cheesecake in a raspberry coulis, did you? Oh, so it was curry night, was it? Well, of course, that whole linguine vongole thing is tricky, isn’t it?
From the full Jackson Pollock across my chest, you'll know exactly what I’ve just had for my tea
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