Broccoli Fingers

Every other day, as my lazy fingers strain to reach the TV remote, a reel of depressing - sometimes slightly provocative - news stories steam on, while I slurp on my Shredded Wheat. And, more often than not, someone in some country has done something to offend them. (As we’ve proved with most of history, we don’t learn from the past…) And, more often than not, we all form one of three innate opinions: “they’re really stupid what the heck did they think would happen?”; “they had every right to, free speech human rights” etc, etc; or “Mum where’s the remote? Has it fallen down the sofa cushion again?”

However, I have been thinking (batten down any loose objects!) and surely, surely you would research the customs of a place before you visit? Maybe? I mean, you wouldn’t burst into a holy place of worship, with bikini shorts half way past your rear end, hooting a vuvuzela (and aren’t we all glad they were all buried, along with the hopes of becoming the next top Olympic gymnast). Well I hope not: it would be hideously embarrassing for everyone there, and yourself, as well as completely offensive.

And, trust me, it is embarrassing when you get the rules wrong:

When I was about seven, I was gleefully around my best friend’s house (a maze of animals and theatre tickets I could only aspire to own), chomping on the tea her mum had cooked for us. I wasn’t a particularly fussy child at that point – and, goodness, I had been previously – yet I did have some odd habits. I was, in truth, still grappling the concept of using cutlery and there were some foods I just didn’t use them for: it had just never occurred to me – I wasn’t trying to be a generally disrespectful and downright bratty youngster, I promise.

Anyway, so we were all around my friend’s varnished dining room table – myself, her, her mum and dad, and two older sisters – enjoying a chat as awkward and slightly forced as you can probably imagine. Due to this, I wasn’t exactly examining my eating habits, as I picked up the broccoli. With my fingers. In fact, it only registered when my friend leaned across to her mum and asked – in a louder voice than I appreciated – “mum, can I eat my broccoli with my fingers too?”

Now, I blush like someone has smashed blackberries into the apples of my cheeks, so you can imagine what happened to my face right at that moment. I delicately placed the quarter-eaten broccoli back on the plate, as my friend’s mum agreed she too could munch on the broccoli with her little fingers. Even then, I could understand she was only doing this to protect the little dignity a year three actually possesses. It was mortifying and I have since never eaten broccoli like I feel it was intended ever again.

So, if you ever discover yourself to be in a peculiar land – a foreign country, a religious conference, or your friend’s deceptively-relaxed family home – please try to observe the customs; you don’t want to trudge into the trap of broccoli fingers.