My whiskers have been in the kitchen since before the pilot light. The left one, longer and more sensitive, detects tuna from 11 metres. The right one, shorter and more suspicious, detects lies. Together they have made me what I am.
In 2009, the left whisker was singed by a flambé gone rogue. I cried for a week. In 2011, the right whisker was clipped by a rival chef at a charity bake off. I did not cry; I filed a complaint. They have both grown back, a little stronger and a little more dramatic, and I now insure them for 40,000 treats through a specialist underwriter on Harbour Street.
Leave a Reply