Lament to the Lunchbox

As everyone hurriedly careers off the train – or gruffly ambles out of their cars – to trudge into work, the common occurrence hits: a forgotten lunchbox. Stodgy leftovers you promised to swallow lie dormant in the fridge, or an inconveniently convenient meal deal from Tesco lulls you briefly for your small change. Either that, or the mere prospect of putting your lips around what is now frazzling between your laptop and crushed under your work, revolts you into pushing lunch back as far as your stomach’s protests will allow. (That is, until you can no longer stand sounding like your calling to your long-lost orca friends.)

This is the cue for a hardy Dragon’s Den entrepreneur - who can be guaranteed to stumble on his profit margins - to present you with a lunch-saving device, at the ‘low low price of £29.99’.

But, we all beat him to it.

As I present to you: the lunchbox.

Whether constructed of industrial plastic (but hinges able to snap like pencil lead) or soft and malleable, lunchboxes are littered throughout schools, with eager hearts – and stomachs – counting down until the bell signified its contents to be devoured. Unlike many adult lunches tossed into laptop bags, these treasure chests contained functional jewels: a you-must-eat-this-first-or-you-don’t-get-anything-else sandwich, perfected by your parents (crusts on, crusts off, butter, no butter, cheese, ham, jam, unless you were hit by the sugar cutback), nutritious fruit, a jazzy juice carton (which invariably came without a straw, but this added challenge could boost brain activity) and a treat or two. These sealed the deal.

And, all the while you munched on your carrot stick and licked the Wotsit dust from your digits, socialising ran through the school hall. You had time to enjoy your granted lunch, comparing (and sharing if you weren’t in a mile radius of a peanut-snuffing teacher) your literacy lessons to the Pink Panther wafers nestled between your Dairylea Dunker and ‘easy peeler’ satsuma.

This is what lunchtime used to be about. And now look at it. At us.

We can lunch so much from our younger selves: why, no matter how much you ask for a reason, mum’s ‘no’ is the definite, law-enforced answer; sandwiches cut into triangles are always better than squares (try it); and, lunchtime was so much better back then. But, how can we impede these lessons onto today?

Firstly, buy yourself a fun, sustainable lunchbox. Then, find a selection of your favourite sandwich fillings (cheese and pickle, tuna and sweet corn, chicken and bacon, pepper and hummus, peanut butter and banana – it works, promise) and pair them with snacks that will make you smile as you proclaim to everyone in the office of your envious lunch.

We will not let the humble lunchbox die.

First Post (or the Quickest Regret Blogpost)

Being an innate worrier (runs in the family, it appears: condemned to overcomplicate the simple and overthink the general), beginning this blog already started the onset of slight, impending panic.

How can I present myself as a cool and hip, yet intellectual but interesting writer?

Will my content even be relevant, considering it is composed by a 17 year old, who is usually mistaken for a year 9 at best?

And, how can I persuade everyone to like me?

Should I take the intrepid, seeming-blasé approach my new creative writing teacher performed? Swagger into the room, lean back on the spinny chair (only for it to creak like a theatrical sound effect secreting from seven loudspeakers) and relay facts at a rapid pace:

My name is Helena; I’m 17 years old; I am studying history, psychology and creative writing A Levels; I am 5ft 3 (and can’t walk in heels, oh woe is me and society’s beauty expectations), have a cat called Arthur, collect funky socks…

Or, should I set the scene, detail a third person account about a girl with brown hair and green eyes, pretzel-legged on a sofa, typing against the sound of Come Dine With Me?

At least you’d know the intentions of my blog, while adding a pinch of pretentiousness.

In deciding, I have - unknowingly - opened my first blog with this mash. Hopefully, it has already sort of be/amused you. If so, come again, witness the unfurling of poems, short stories and anecdotes all typed by my little mole hands (so I am told, and subsequently laughed at for).

(Mole hands aren't evident here, but once you see it, they cannot be unseen)