One evening, leaving my office at Old Mutual, I was hit by a wave of ravenous, prehistoric hunger. The kind of hunger that bypasses logic and heads straight for the nearest Spur restaurant. I pulled over and ordered the largest thing on the menu: a "Double Decker" giant burger, flanked by a mountain of chips and enough onion rings to build a small tower.
I inhaled it. By the time I wiped the last bit of sauce from my face, I wasn't just sated; I was physically compromised. I felt like a snake that had swallowed a particularly large goat.
I waddled through my front door, only to be greeted by my girlfriend’s radiant, expectant smile.
"Just in time!" Ally chirped. "I’ve been cooking that fancy meal I promised you all afternoon."
My blood ran cold. I’d completely forgotten. She lived to cook, and more importantly, she lived to watch me eat. She settled into her chair and watched me like a hawk, waiting for that signature look of "Myburgh-pleasure" to cross my face.
I performed like an Oscar-winner. I chewed, I hummed, and I forced every forkful of that "fancy" dinner into a stomach that was already at maximum capacity. Against all odds, I cleared the plate. I had done it. I was safe.
Then, she stood up with a triumphant glint in her eye.
"And now," she announced, "for dessert!"
She marched back into the kitchen and returned with a massive, steaming helping of sticky date pudding, buried under a literal mound of thick, yellow custard.
I went in looking for a quick burger; I left realizing that the only thing heavier than a Spur Double Decker is the weight of a lie topped with extra custard.
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