Bad Taste

Michael sat forlornly looking at his plate of beans on toast. The toast was going soggy and the beans were beginning to congeal. He sighed to himself, thinking of the days, not so long ago, when he could afford to eat at five-star restaurants or have his personal chef make him any dish he desired. His mouth watered as he thought of some of his favourites. The faintly oaky taste of smoked salmon, tiny buckwheat blinis smeared with sour cream and topped with the best Beluga caviar, which popped in your mouth giving that slightly salty taste of the sea, and of course, his preferred breakfast of scrambled eggs with white truffles. He was, he thought, a connoisseur. Looking down at his plate he felt like crying. Life was so unfair!

As he tried a forkful of the dire concoction, his eyes roamed around the room. The paint had seen better days and the wallpaper was starting to peel. A few months ago he would have thought nothing of calling in the finest interior decorator to give his home the elegant makeover that his position had called for. Now he thought he might have to try painting the room himself! Perhaps B&Q did paint? Of course he would have to use his own judgement about the colours but he knew he had always had excellent taste.

He chewed the mushy toast and overly sweet beans feeling faintly sick. Pushing the plate away from him, he decided he would rather go hungry. It would serve all those awful people right if he died of starvation! How was a man to live? Michael didn’t know how much longer he could go on like this. The papers had been full of animosity, the criticism and derision had been going on for months. The tales grew worse and worse with each new telling. Why anyone would think he had a gold plated castle in Scotland and drank champagne with every meal! Most of it was rubbish anyway. He whole heartedly disapproved of the dirt digging, fault finding journalists that had turned his life and those of his friends, upside down.

Well, thought Michael, at least he had a new position to look forward to. From what he’d heard the new ‘club’ threw some wonderful parties. And he still had a small pension from his previous job. What a fuss the press had made about that too! After all, £80,000 per annum was barely enough to live on! Michael Martin, former Speaker of the House of Commons, huffed; still seething about the way he had been treated by the British press and public and said to himself,
“It’s all been handled with extremely bad taste!”