Dear High Street purveyor of ‘delicious’ lunchtime meals,

Hi!  Let me start off by saying, for the most part, I really like you.  I’d friggin’ marry your cheese and pickle sandwiches if there wasn’t a chance for the relationship to moulder after an unrefrigerated romance.  But there’s something we need to talk about; have a discussion, a palaver, if you will. 

Your salads are kinda gross. (Mummy Tourette always told me to lead with the good and then stick the knife in.)

I happened into one of your shops today, hungry and looking for something to satiate me.  I found myself in front of your cooler box of love.  Your friendly fluorescent lights beckoning me to choose one of the brightly blissful packages of ambrosial goodness.  It took me about 10 minutes- because honestly how can one choose between such salacious synonyms as: scrumptious, yummy, enticing and delectable?  There were so many to choose from, but I settled on the ‘Tempting 5 bean salad with spinach and grilled halloumi in a spicy tomato sauce’. It certainly was. What? I dunno.  I bought this salad based on your duplicitous description- preparing for the incredibly awesome flavour assault on my taste buds.

What I got was this-
It’s like a Dali painting.  ‘Toyed it, my heart’, obscure and abhorrently delectible!

Seriously, High Street?  I mean, seriously?  How do you only grill (your incredibly salty) halloumi on one side?  How does your tomato sauce taste less like tomatoes and more like cheesy feet?  How does your 5 bean salad actually consist of 3 beans of varying sizes?  (And by the way a lentil is not a bean, it’s a pulse.) Also, the extra helping of lime?  Would have appreciated a warning that the first bite of my supposedly mildly spiced salad would involve me having a lime induced seizure.  There was no description of lime on your label; can you be more forward with your sour intentions before I shove you in my mouth?

But your most nefarious infraction, your most poisonous predication was this-

I’ll be a-giggling while I consume your soul!

The best name I can come up with for these slimy, diseased facsimiles of red onion are…well, diseased facsimiles of red onion. (Or purple sluggy mates of FUN!)   Why, high street, did you decide to torture me?  Why did I have to spit the purple sluggy mates of FUN! out after first chomp?  Because they’re disgusting, High Street.  Just gross.  Onion does not age well in the best of circumstances.  It’s even more monstrous when you decide to use this half-cooked nastiness in your so-called fresh salads.  Half-cooked anything in a fresh salad is blasphemy, is it not? (I realize the ridiculousness of calling any refrigerated salad with an eight day outdate blasphemy, but go with me here, I’m trying to prove a point.)

So what does one do in such a situation, High Street?  Continue eating this rubbish because I’m ravenous?  Yes.  Yes, I did. Understand, I was f*cking famished, High Street.  And I ingested your abhorrent awfulness to fill my belly. 

It took a hell of a lot of Cholula and a bit of Johnny’s, but I managed to get it down. Can’t say I liked it, can’t say I didn’t. But next time High Street, keep your sickly, slimy slugs from hell to yourself.  And let me get along without your lime of doom. DOOM!

CHOLULA!
*this post contains copious amounts of absolutely amazing alliteration, use wisely! Like Cholula.