She had eaten breakfast, lunch, dinner, supper by 9am. She was marginally bored after 5 minutes so she made a big salad – no, a massive salad. Then she put together a tray of roast potatoes, port crackling, brussel sprouts, chestnuts and stuffing. And trifle to follow. She concluded that she was actually eating Christmas dinner in the height of summer time. It was now 9.45 am, so she turned to the contents of the fridge, the cupboards, her coat pockets and resorted to eating her finger nails. She moved onto her hair, her hands, her feet, her thighs, her arse and finally her face; quite literally she had eaten her face off. But wait a minute, she remembered she'd left a half eaten lasagne in the kitchen fridge. She ate that too.
People eulogised at the funeral, lamented her excessive dietary needs. From the afterlife she watched on, eating all their words. She ate the feeling of foreboding on a Monday morning, she ate the table leg which stubbed toes. She ate the love of the person who never reciprocates, she ate the automated telephone system which said your call was important but that you would still have to wait for a very long time before it was answered. She ate the hope of a better tomorrow, she ate the belief system which kept you afloat, she ate your longings, your plans, your certainty that hard work would pay off, she ate the tiny little hope that one day that friend you lost touch with would walk through the door. She ate your fear of living which made you half alive. She ate the crusts from bread which children often leave. She ate public schools, academies and comprehensives. She ate Westminster, and when the media complained she ate the BBC. She ate the answers on University Challenge, she ate instant celebrity. She ate the ozone layer, she ate landfills, she ate the aftermath of gratitude which followed. She ate the dread of walking into the room full of strangers. She ate police procedural dramas and she ate future episodes of Antiques Road Show. She ate regrets, failings, and feelings of superiority, she ate feelings of abject worthlessness. She ate praise, she ate criticism. She ate institutions. She ate, she ate, she ate.
People of ecclesiastical tendencies and sensibilities recognised this life force and likened her to the Buddah. She was appalled, she ate their nonsense. When the Catholic Church tried to canonise her and sought out three miracles she ate the Pope. When evangelicals likened her to the Devil she ate their hypocrisy, she ate their heaven. Banksy drew a picture of her as an artist with excessive dietary expectations. She liked that. They liked that. They called her The Artist Fat with Expectation. She allowed the portrait to go viral. She soon got bored and ate social media. Her face is now slowly turning, in your direction. Yes, you. You. Can you see her? She's looking.
At - You.