Have you ever asked yourself a question along the lines of: “If you had to choose not to eat bread or not to eat potatoes, what would you go for?”, or perhaps: “If you had to either never ever have a starter or never ever have a pudding, which would you pick?” You probably have. Maybe not while alone, but as part of some desultory group chat. Though perhaps you rise above it – these are very hypothetical scenarios, after all. Who exactly is going to say that forever after you can only have starters or puddings? Donald Trump? It doesn’t strike me as his style. Keir Starmer might float the idea since he’s so worried about the NHS, but then he’d pub-garden it within 48 hours. Perhaps you’ll develop type 2 diabetes and have to give up desserts but there won’t be any scope for bargaining. “I simply must have meringue but I’m willing to swear off paté and prawn cocktails in exchange” is not an argument any reputable doctor will accept.
It’s diverting, though, in a bland way. If you’re at all interested in yourself, and it’s probably a mental health red flag if you’re not, you can’t help pondering it a bit. “Ooh, I love a roast potato, but instead of toast? That’s a poser. I think I’d have to keep toast.” That’s a little snippet from my own scintillating interior monologue, by the way. “Starters ahead of puddings. Every day of the week.” And there’s another. Like thinking about what you’d do if you ruled the world or won the lottery, it provokes harmless little explorations of what you’re like. “Do you know, I wouldn’t actually want it to be Christmas every day because then it wouldn’t be a treat,” you can proudly announce to yourself and any of the others in the chat. And hopefully there’s no rise-abover who’ll say: “Remind me, are we mortal or immortal, we humans? It’s mortal, isn’t it. We’re mortal. So what the hell is this?!”
