Being Mr. Kenny

Anyone who has ever spent more than 30 minutes in my company will tell you that I have a certain weakness for food. My mother tells me I’ve had this soft spot ever since the I was first given solids. She says that on my first mouthful I became ecstatic, and once I had finished the meal I wailed like a banshee until more food was prepared for me. I guess I never looked back.

It’s not that I like to stuff my face — well, I suppose it is really — it’s just that when I’m hungry I can think of nothing else except what I could eat to fix the problem. Waiting in the queue at the deli, I am like a child on Christmas day. What about gherkins this time? Or humous? Have I given enough thought to the possibility of olives? And so on.

But it’s deeper than looking forward to food. If I know I’ve got an especially nice sandwich, I actually get a little emotional when I think about eating it, and I’m always bitterly disappointed when I’ve finished it. This is why I always buy chocolate or crisps when I’m taking lunch. Lunch without chocolate or crisps is like a car without an engine — or the Post Office without queuing — there’s just no point!