I’ve started eating lunch again.
While this may be a candidate subject for ‘Web’s Most Boring Blog’, it’s driven me to reconsider the whole point of lunch. More than a midday refuelling stop: it’s an hour or so of holiday time, a little minibreak from the rigours of the day. It breaks the day into smaller, easier-to-handle sessions, and if there’s one thing I’m about, it’s about breaking things into definable parts.
But for some reason I gave up lunches late last year; they just seemed to be one thing I could miss. Let’s face it, unless you’ve got a business date and need an actual restaurant, the lunch options in London aren’t up to much: the usual parade of sad Starbucks sandwiches and Costalot coffee fail to inspire. (I miss having a client in St Johns Wood – there was an amazing boxed salad shop across the street.)
When you’re working at home, though – as I’ll be doing the next two months, tying up loose ends before I move to Shakespeare country – lunchtime gets better. It feels naughty, like raiding the fridge at midnight. With some crusty ciabaccia, a whole free-range roast chicken*, and some rock salt and rocket, an hour’s break from the desk turns into a relaxing bit of time off. And is that – whoohooo! – a chocolate cheesecake I see before me?
Hell, think I’ll be even naughtier and sneak out to the O2 this afternoon! How radical is that?
* I didn’t eat the WHOLE chicken, naturally.