Tea is my typewriter

Calvin had spent a year planning his final meal. Every element had been carefully plotted. Each dish was selected to be delicious. Every mouthful was intended to be decadent. The quality of every ingredient was assured, and co-ordination of the wines was thoughtful and imaginative. The table linen was pristine, the cutlery a joy to handle. The entirety of the feast was intended to be the most gluttonous experience Cal could imagine.

Calvin was not a connoisseur. Nobody would have even described him as a foodie. Calvin had certain prescribed meals for each day of the week, and ate with precise regularity. Every Sunday at 6pm he would eat his roast chicken dinner, which meant that every Monday 6pm was chicken curry, every Tuesday 6.30pm (to allow time for a gym visit) was a hearty chicken soup. Each 7am breakfast was a boiled egg, and each lunch was packed in a steel lunchbox for ease, efficient and minimal environmental impact. In Calvin’s food waste collection bin there was seldom anything other than tea bags, carrot tops and chicken bones.

It was precisely this parsimony that led Cal to choose to eat himself to death. The extravagance of preparing enough food to rupture his stomach was the most extreme demise Cal could imagine. This was such a departure from his regular life that it could only represent a closure, an ending, a full stop. The entire year of planning had led up to this day, his fiftieth birthday, had been an exercise in creation of an intense sensuality, as different from his normal life as day is to night. This was to be the day when he would have his cake and eat it. He would savour every mouthful. He would have no fear of excess, no fear of getting fat, no fear of being chastised for following his appetites – and then he would never, ever again feel empty.

Cal looked around his empty living room. His furniture was stored in the garage, which had not been a difficult job. His house normally had a catalogue look about it, uncluttered by excess posessions. He was not one for excess, normally. His energy tariff was the cheapest, his car was small with minimal pollution creation, his broadband package was the best value.

Calvin’s cockatoo, Solomon, flew on to his shoulder. “Ready, set go!” Solomon said, bobbing his crested head. “Vienetta!”

Cal laughed and scratched Sol’s head. “All ready, no Vienetta though. Only the finest foods tonight, old bird. Creme caramel, tiramisu, baked cheesecake, apple pie, treacle sponge, profiteroles, baklava and a very fine pavlova, but certainly no Vienetta. Perhaps an ironic slice of death by chocolate cake, if I’m still breathing.”

Sol rubbed his grey beak across Cal’s nose and nibbled him gently. “Vienetta.”

Sol had been a family pet since Cal’s childhood. When his parents died the bird had come to live with Cal, and Cal, still living alone,  was glad of the company. The bird had always been a consistent feature in Cal’s life, even when his parents were unpredictable. He’d always been able to teach Sol a new word or a skill when he felt alone or rejected, and Sol was always happy to see him. 

“Sol, you have over five hundred words. Why are you so fixated with a pretend stracciatella? Maybe Francis will buy you some when he’s looking after you. I’ll miss you, daft old bird.” 

It was just before 10am on his fiftieth birthday. In a few minutes, the cavalry would arrive to start the preparations for the feast. The living room would soon be a pristine dining room with subdued lighting and a table set for a dozen people. The kitchen would soon be buzzing with a team of chefs, carefully interviewed and selected by Cal, who had commanded their price of this single day’s work.

“I almost feel excited by all this”, he told Sol. “Bloody big birthday party, isn’t it? So it should be, if you’re going to cash in 30 years worth of civil service pension and blow it all on one meal, it should be a meal people will talk about for years.”

But Cal didn’t feel excited. Like every other day, he didn’t feel anything. Planning gave him satisfaction. Seeing his plan come together would give him even more satisfaction of a job well done. But it wasn’t excitement. It wasn’t joy. Cal didn’t remember what these things were.

The doorbell rang. Sol went back to his perch and the procession began. Outside the house grew a fleet of cars and vans. Delivery drivers brought boxes to be signed for, refrigerated vans whirred as they came and went, doors slamming. Workmen were assembling a massive wood-fired oven in the garden. The chefs changed into their uniforms in Cal’s spare room and got to work in the kitchen with the sounds of chopping, shouting and pop music on the radio. 

Cal surveyed the food deliveries. A bucket filled with live lobsters, rubber bands round their claws. A small mountain of prawns in their shells, a box from the butcher filled with marbled red steaks and several racks of ribs. Buckets of double cream.

Cal asked the chef to prepare his a coffee. The £500 bag of Komi Luwak had nestled on his counter-top for a few days now, and when it was opened it smelled divine. Cal closed his eyes and waited, inhaling the aroma-laden air, salivating. The hot cup, when it arrived, was comforting and enlivening, but Cal wondered whether it really was 125 times better than his usual supermarket brew. 

Mildly disappointed with the drink but satisfied that all was according to plan, Cal went for a walk. 

The weather, luckily, was going exactly to plan and it was a cold, crisp Autumn morning with low sun. There was no doubt in his mind that today would be his last. On his last birthday, he realised with razor sharp clarity that he had no desire to live. His dad had died aged 50 and he had no idea how to be a 50 year old man in the world. 

For Cal, life was an endurance activity. You find a job, work till you retire, and if you’re lucky you find a partner to share it with – not something he had ever managed to do. You might pursue hobbies to pass the time, and Cal had read books, watched films, enjoyed fishing trips. He’d travelled widely with his best friend Francis, appreciated the sunset at the Taj Mahal alongside thousands of other tourists, gasped as orcas swam alongside a boat off the coast of Vancouver, seen the sunrise over the Grand Canyon. He considered his life to have been privileged to have seen these things, but still wondered what all the fuss was about. None of them had changed him.

Francis, his friend since childhood, had been floored by the statue of Christ the Redeemer in Rio. Francis was speechless, profoundly moved by the scale and symbolism of the sculpture, and had spent the rest of their holiday in a state of peace and serenity that Cal had never seen before. But for Cal, it was a really big statue, an impressive feat of engineering, but devoid of profound connection.

A year ago, Cal realised there was nothing else he wanted to do in life, save one thing – eat. He wanted to sample all the foods everyone raved about. Oysters. Steak. The most expensive cheeses. Perfectly cooked lobsters. Caviar. Wagya beef. Hollandaise sauce. Truffles. The finest desserts, the most exquisite wines and whiskys. His tastes had always been austere, because being overweight was a sign of self indulgence, and self indulgence was wrong. He reasoned that if he was going to leave, it should be in an act of decadence.

And so he had spent some time every day for the last year, planning this day. The ingredients, the setting, the mechanisms to get the components to his house, the perfect chefs and staff. This meal, this dinner party was, for Cal, the perfect suicide note. It had been drafted and redrafted until it perfectly expressed everything he had to say. 

In this perfectly planned meal, Cal expected to find every bit of unuttered joy, every speck of passion he had missed in his life, once and once only. Then, after eating more and more of each delicious dish, he would excuse himself, consume the 32 paracetamol with a tumbler of the most expensive single malt, and settle down to the post-prandial nap from which he would never wake up. 

Cal walked along the canal, as he’d planned, squinting into the sunlight. He didn’t notice a woman walking towards him on the towpath until he had all but collided with her.

After many apologies and much squinting into the sun, it was apparent that nobody was hurt. “I don’t have a map for this path”, she smiled. “I didn’t know where I was going, I was trying to find a place for coffee but I got disorientated. I’m Dot.”

She presented a hand to him with such disarming easy confidence that he didn’t know what to say. She was slender with short, dark hair, dressed in black jeans and baseball boots, with a small ankh hung round her neck. He fumbled, shook her hand and said “I’m Cal. I like maps too. I like to know where I’m going. I like a plan.”

“I didn’t say I liked a map”, said Dot. “I just said I didn’t have one. I like to not know where I’m going sometimes. It’s an adventure. And look, I met you.”

As if his day hadn’t been planned with great precision, Cal asked Dot if she’d like to come to his house for coffee. He told her he had a really special bag of coffee there. When she raised an eyebrow and moved away slightly, he told her that she didn’t need to come inside, that he’d happily bring the drink out to her. She said yes.

As they walked towards his house, Cal could smell food cooking, wood smoke from the garden and muffled music from the kitchen. He smiled to realise it was exactly like the picture in his head. 

A Cadillac pulled into his driveway. The door opened and a pair of white cowboy boots stepped out onto the gravel, followed by a full Vegas-era Elvis Presley, with perfect quiff, sideburns and rhinestone jumpsuit. From the passenger door emerged a short woman in a shorter denim skirt, red boots and a cloud of blonde curls. Each of them raised their sunglasses to take in Cal’s semi-detached, neat, austere home.

“I’m-a thinkin’ we’re in the right place here, swee’heart”, said Elvis.

“We shu’ are, honeybunch, look, here’s Mister Cal a-comin’ now!” drawled the girl, smiling. 

Cal was smothered in bear-hugs from his visitors, who then turned to Rosie and gave her the same. Cal coughed and laughed and introduced Rosie to Elvis and Tammy-Lynne, “who’re helping me with my birthday party tonight.”

“Pleased to meet you!” Said Tammy-Lynne, showing perfect teeth and a mesmerising smile, her face genuinely warm and caring. “And just so as you both know, we are here to make darned sure it’ theeeee very best dinner party you ever had! So please, you just say the word if there’s anythin’ you’re wantin’. Got a full tank o gas if you need any last minute provisions brought in.”

“Uh-huh-huh!” Grinned Elvis, sunglasses back on.

“Thank you guys, I’m delighted to see you, you’re exactly how I’d pictured you”, said Cal. Elvis – can I call you Elvis? – let me show you where you’ll be welcome in the guests, and Tammy-Lynn, let me introduce you to the chefs. Rosie – I’ll get you that coffee – “

“No, you’re so busy! I’ll see you another time?”

Cal, on the back foot and anxious about losing his grip on his plan, said suddenly “why don’t you come ot my party tonight? It’s a 7pm start. For dinner. Um, lots of dinner.”

“I’d like that”, said Dot. “And I know how to find it, I don’t need a map. Okay, thank you. I’ll see you at seven.” And she turned and walked away.

Cal we bewildered. Why had he just deliberately messed up his plan? The table was for twelve and now there would be thirteen.

“Gee, that’s lovely!”, said Tammy-Lynne, “I love that you can be spontaneous like that, Cal!” 

Cal shrugged and smiled. Too late to worry about it now. And it wouldn’t make any difference to the end of the night.

All afternoon the house buzzed with cooking activity, Elvis’s casual singing and Tammy-Lynne’s enthusiastic chatter. Cal couldn’t remember his house ever being so lively, exactly as he’d envisaged. Tammy-Lynne was captivated by Solomon and his 40-year vocabulary which he was more than willing to show off for chunks of mango or banana.

In his bedroom, call practiced his deep breathing techniques. He’d been working on the determination and mental strength required to suppress his gag reflex, his body’s self-preservation mechanism. He would have to deal iwth the restrictions on his lungs as his stomach and intestines grew larger after hours of eating. He looked at the paracetamol on the bedside cabinet, three jars distilled into one, sitting beside an expensive bottle of single malt. This was his plan B, if he didn’t manage to eat enough, or if the pain became too much. He stroked the new linen sheets.

As his guests arrived, they were gleeful to be welcomed by Elvis and delighted to have Tammy-Lynne prepare their cocktails at the well-stocked, specially installed, kitsch 70s-style home bar in the corner of the living room. 

Francis sidled up to Cal, vodka martini in his hand. “Cal, this is gorgeous. What a party. Isn’t Tammy-Lynne amazing? She was just telling me about black holes, it was fascinating. How much is this all costing you? I know it’s your birthday, mate, but still!”

Cal knew better than to tell Francis about cashing in his pension and spending his savings, so he smiled and told his friend not to worry. “I’m 50 today, Francis. You can’t do this thing twice.”

Solomon flew on to Cal’s shoulder with a shout of “Vienetta!”

Francis laughed. “Hiya Sol! Did he just say Vienetta? Is that what we’re eating tonight? Bloody hell, tell me you spent more than £1.49 on the desserts!”

Cal smiled. “Of course I have! We have the finest creme caramel, we have profiteroles so light they could blow away in a fart, pavlova so creaming and chewy your mouth won’t know what to do, and an insane chocolate volcano that is actually going to erupt. But no Vienetta, sorry Solomon. I’ve no idea why he’s so fixated with Vienetta today.”

“Didn’t your dad used to love a Vienetta? Wasn’t that his Saturday night treat watching 3-2-1?” Francis rotated his hand and wiggled his fingers in a pathetic attempt a the show’s signature move.

“God you’ve got a good memory Frank. I’d totally forgotten that.”

Before they could reminisce any further, Elvis appeared at Cal’s elbow. “The chefs say we’re a-ready to rock and roll, boss”, he said, shrugging his shoulders and fixing his collar.

Cal smiled. “It’s one for the money, then.”

Cal had reflected long and hard about his guest list. While he wanted to share his last meal with the people he felt closest to, and Francis was always top of that list, the list itself was very short. He had wondered about giving the nourishment to people most in need of it, but in the end had decided to invite people who would get on well together – a few people from work, the band from the pub on a Saturday night, the Thursday night quiz team, Marge and Maud, the friendly couple who ran the local artisan bakery, Moira and Geoff next door who looked after Sol when Cal was away. 

And now, Dot. There she was, having plenty of chat and lots of laughter with Marge and Maud. Cal was pleased. This had been the riskiest part of the plan – people were, after all, relentlessly unpredictable. 

“My father”, he explained to Dot, “he taught me that.  Unpredictable. Sometimes he’d be delighted to see me, other times he’d be sullen and crabbit, never cracking a smile for days. Hogmanay he loved, he’d be leading the singing, Solomon on his shoulder, doing the first foot. Then January – quiet as a church mouse, barely there. We’d see him for dinner and that was all.”

Dot put her head to one side. “That sounds like a hard thing for a child to have to grow up with. How did it make you feel?”

“Feel?”, said Cal. “I didn’t feel anything, that was just the way he was.”

Dot nodded and leaned forwards, expectantly, as if Cal should have more to say. He racked his brains, but there was nothing else to say. Not sure how to fill the gap, he asked if she was enjoying the lobster. 

Dot was taken aback. “Yeah, yeah, the lobster’s nice.”

Solomon flew down to Cal’s shoulder. “Vienetta.”

Dot laughed. “Does he only have one word? Does he love ice cream?”

“Umm, he’s not really allowed any. Maybe tonight I’ll make an exception though.”

The hors d’oeuvre were delicious. The starters filled the table with plates and plates of tasty morsels. Elvis advised the guests that they might like to keep to only a few mouthfuls of each plate because more was to come, and they laughed in disbelief. 

It took a few courses before anyone noticed how much food Cal was packing away. The quiz team nudged. They’d never seen him eat more than a couple of salt and vinegar crisps before. 

Cal breathed deeply, giving his stomach some time between mouthfuls to squeeze the rich substances into his intestines. The waves of nausea began in earnest half way through the mains. He found to keep the food down, focussing on his plan, his plan, his plan. Distraction helped. He gazed at Francis, Sol on his shoulder, murmuring “Vienetta.” He listened to Dot chat to Maude about work and family.

Cal had warned Elvis not to stop bringing food, even if the guests protested. By the time the mains were cleared the table was in good humour – the wine was flowing well and there was much laughter. Tammy-Lynne was engaging Moira in a discussion about missions to Mars, the lead singer of the band was arguing about Kantian ethics with Marge, and Francis was laughing hard at something Elvis had said. Cal felt so sick, so very, very unwell, but also strangely uplifted. This was exactly what he’d planned. 

The futility of Cal’s life was not affected by this moment. This small moment of joy, this random aligning of the planets by the unknowable hand of the universe, the mystery of these moments, did not cause Cal to regret his decision. The arbitrariness of joy, he knew, was exactly why life was so excruciatingly unbearable. If joy were predictable, he knew, then perhaps life would hurt less.

Faced with the chocolate volcano, Cal began to feel his body shut down. The oohs and aahs at the rolling waves of hot chocolate fondant receded and all he could hear was the downs of blood coursing in his ears. The spoonful of creme caramel felt impossibly heavy in his hand and the distance between his plate and his mouth felt further than the moon. His face was heavy and his breathing came in sharp, painful bursts. 

As Sol flew to his shoulder, Cal felt himself slump sideways into a waiting plate of profiteroles before he lost consciousness completely.

Cal was ten years old. He stood in the living room of his parents house on the swirly orange pattern of the carpet. His mum was knitting and laughing at the television. His sister lay on her stomach on the floor, chin resting on her hands, shouting “That’s the bin! That’s Dusty Bin!” Solomon sat on his perch in the corner of the room. And in a soft brown armchair, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other, sat Cal’s father.

His father was smiling broadly and his arms and legs were wide. He was laughing. In one hand he held a wide glass dessert dish with a short stem, like a champagne glass, and in the other hand, he held a spoon. In the dish was a slice of chocolate-streaked white ice cream. 

Cal’s father looked at him. “Come over here, son”, he said, waving the spoon. Can stepped over and kneeled down beside the armchair, so as to not get in teh way of his Mum’s view of the TV. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.” Cal did as he was told.

There was a sound of cracking chocolate and of spoon against glass. Cal felt the spoon in his mouth. The cold, creamy sweet sensation was the most wonderful feeling he had ever known. The melt of the chill into the crispy layers of chocolate filled him from head to toe with a shiver of complete pleasure. He wanted to stay here for ever, and ever.

“That’s my boy, Calvin. Nothing like a bit of Vienetta, is there?”

Cal opened his eyes and threw his arms round his Dad’s neck. “I love you, Dad”, he laughed, feeling the spikey roughness of his Dad’s bearded on his neck and ears. “I love you back, Calvin.”, said his Dad.

They looked up at Solomon who was bobbing his head and crying “Vienetta! Vienetta!” And somehow the sound of Sol’s voice was getting louder and louder, as if the bird were getting closer and closer, although he was still on his perch –

Cal’s eyes opened with great difficulty. The chocolate sauce from a profiterole had glued his lashes together from where he’d fallen into his plate. The smell of sherry from the trifle filled his nostrils, and although his stomach churned, he couldn’t deny how delicious it was. 

The chocolate fondant was over almost everyone’s lips as they stared in concern at their comatose host. It was somewhat grotesque but all Cal wanted to do was laugh. The garish sprinkles on top of the trifle assaulted his eyes, as if the contrast and brightness in the room had been turned up to the maximum. The rhinestones on Elvis’s jumpsuit glistened all the colours of the rainbow as he moved. The sounds of the music felt like the most wonderful , uplifting symphony Cal had ever heard. 

The gentle nibble of Sol’s beak on his ear was familiar, comforting and reassuring. “Solomon”, he murmured, trying to find enough room to inhale again, “Shall we get some Vienetta?”

Tammy-Lynne made sure everyone’s glasses were full before she pulled the Cadillac out of the drive, went to the all night petrol station and bought every box of Vienetta in their chest freezer. She said he got back, the house was a riot. The music was loud, and Marge and MAud were dancing with Moira on teh front lawn. Teh guys from teh band were playing “Burning Love” and Elvis was giving it his very best. On teh floor she found Francis and Cal, laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe, and Dot, smiling as she watched, stroking Sol who sat calmly on her arm.

Francis gasped for air. “This guy!”, he panted. “We used to laugh like this all the time. It feels like years since we laughed like this, doesn’t it?”

“It does”, said Cal, wiping the tears from his eyes. He felt much better after his long vomiting session. The technicolour chunks, the revolting smell, the burning in his mouth and throat, and left his feeling relentlessly, joyfully, powerfully alive, more than the eating ever had. “It’s been so many years. Let’s keep doing it.”

The chefs plated up the Vienetta and Cal insisted everyone take at least one mouthful. The music stopped, and the sound of spoons against dishes chinked through the silence. 

“Bloody hell, that’s good”, whispered Cal, and tears started to roll down his cheeks. He offered a spoonful to Solomon, who pecked at the chocolate. “That’s Dusty Bin”, he said.

Dot smiled. “The food was nice, Cal, but I have to say, there’s nothing like a bit of Vienetta, is there?”

In the morning, Cal and Dot woke up with sun streaming through Cal’s bedroom window. A pair of hangovers to end all hangovers, they both groaned as they lifted their heads off the pillow. The linen felt cool against their aching heads. 

Cal had never felt so alive. He turned gently to look at Dot and she smiled. The warm red of her cheeks, the dark brown sheen of her hair. These were the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

Dot winced. “Can you pass me a couple of those paracetamol pleaseCal grinned and kissed her.