She has ruined me.
My reputation is in more tatters than that mid-80s suede fringed jacket that haunts Her wardrobe (and my dreams).
In the park on Saturday the Pekingese twins squealed and hid behind their owner’s legs when I flounced past, Dave the Pug’s asthmatic breathing rasped from the bush he was hiding in and even the slack-jawed Boxer Jax who spends most of his days air humping and lonely tried to hide behind the tree he was ‘befriending’.
I, bien sur, trotted through with my perfectly formed head held high, enjoying the jaunty way my ears were bouncing. I was convinced that Her new day-glow self-tan made the pooches think that Donatella Versace had been released from wherever it was they kept her and was running amok in SW London looking for pelts, vodka or friends or something.
It wasn’t until we got home that I realised what the issue was.
I was happily admiring the reflection of my visage in the fridge door, turning my head this way and that while congratulating myself on the way I had seamlessly been dropping French words into conversation when She swung the door open and reached for the almond milk.
Pardon?
Where is my Organic Dutchy Waitrose-bought semi skimmed?
Where is my imported Greek yogurt with honey?
WHERE IS MY FARMERS MARKET BOUGHT RIPENED BRIE??!
...Apparently word had gotten about the park that our family had turned vegan.
Now, She & He had been toying with vegetarianism for some time. The house is full of Linda McCartney sausages and quinoa and my ‘Beefy Chunk’ dinner was changed to ‘Fish for Dog’s because, in Her addled mind, fish didn’t ‘feel’ as much cows (I’d have pointed out that she’s never actually asked a fish about this but was worried I’d be eating hummus for the next decade.)
Vegetarian … fine. I mean, practically EVERYONE lives on quinoa these days but… vegan?!?
I poured out my troubles to my old confidante Charlie Spaniel on my next river stroll and he pointed out that A. It’s probably just a fad and B. Like Russell & Bromley loafers, something like this only highlights someone’s middle-classedness.
Magnifique! Charlie was right! How more Fulham could one get than fad like veganism? Daddy I want to play tennis - daddy I hate tennis I want a pony - daddy I hate the stupid pony I want to go to Verbier to ski - daddy I HATE Verbier I want to be a vegan…
I will merely look at it as a sign that we are an upwardly mobile family and I will finally get my PA Joanna and my butler called Colin.
“Colin darling, pass the hummus… While pottering around the terrace I think I’ve just discovered a new source of plant-based nutrition – wunderbar!”
(I am tri-lingual.)