Faggots With a Side of Lesbian Tea

Seven years ago last Friday, I moved to London. I celebrated – sort of -- with a lunch of faggots and mash. Which I ordered, if you can believe, partly because the dish came with purple cabbage. (Yes, I ordered a dish partly because of the vegetable it came with. Craziness.)

A faggot, for the record, seems indistinguishable from a meatball, except it had a slightly slimy sausage-casing-type-thing. (I know, I know – I should not stop or pass go but should go directly to writing menu descriptions, right?) Had I not been with actual British parent-types I might well have taken a picture of the daily specials sign with the dish listed – after seven years, my "I've fallen down the rabbit hole" moments are very rare, and this almost qualified as one.

I left over half of the mash and had a slice of plum and almond tart with clotted cream for dessert. Plus a cup of tea: English breakfast with milk. (A friend recently told me this was builders' tea, as opposed to the green tea – "lesbian tea," she says it's called – that she drinks.)

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On Thursday – fueled by a scoop of West Country clotted cream ice cream – I went windsurfing. As I zipped up my wetsuit I had a flashback to the last time I windsurfed – my first lesson, in July – when I'd been bingeing. (Knowing I was going for a lesson was the only thing that kept me from a huge binge in the early afternoon, but as soon as I was off the water I dove into the food.)

It took me a while to remember what I'd learned the previous lesson – to get my sea legs back – and I had more than a few seconds of wondering if I were the worst, most-fraidy-cat-ish girl this particular instructor had ever taught. I found myself wanting to tell him I'd lost a lot of weight, just so he could understand that in Sports Age I am actually about two years old and thus he should be gentle with me. Also so he could understand that my goals are incredibly modest. Forget about fast tacking – just being able to keep my balance standing on the board practically is enough for me to turn cartwheels (though not, of course, on the board).

I fell repeatedly trying to learn the aforementioned fast tacking, and only when I think about it now do I realize that not once did I worry about the size of the splash I created. It's possibly an even more thrilling feeling than the wind in my sails, practically flying over the water.