Red Flag Carnival

How a difficult childhood including abuse blinded me to the price of admission.

I had never attempted to cook for anyone and excitedly walked there.

The moment the door opened a giant wave of despair hit me. I’d seen the face too often - she went straight to the sofa and stared at her phone.

In the kitchen a few minutes, I knew by abrupt replies, unwillingness to help, and her eyes fixed on her phone, this was going to be anything but fun. All enthusiasm and life were immediately sucked out of me.

In the past month I’d given her £7,000, paying for her and her best friend to go on holiday.

Over the same month - she forgot my birthday “twice”, made zero effort, showed no remorse and was “four” days late with my card.

She criticised my character on three occasions – one time very maliciously.

One Sunday evening after being treated all weekend, including £200 dinner with a friend, whilst keeping 2 metres away at all times, she spent 3 hours using me as her emotional punchbag to vociferously complain of exhaustion.

Ironically, exhaustion caused being out all the time, having great experiences, spending money I’m working myself into exhaustion to give to her, to have no experiences other than these awful ones.

And less than two weeks earlier, this text: 9.30am

“Morning, so I’ve been thinking a bit recently about the fact I would like to date other people (as well as you), and I am now in a position where I would like to act on that. I’m so nervous sending this because I really don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I do feel I’ve been very clear on my views about this from the beginning. How do you want to progress with this situation? Do you want me to tell you about this kind of thing, or would you rather not know?”

Just three days earlier, she had messaged to say her skin was great, the best in a year, she feels so confident and like her old self again and thanked me for everything I do. This text after that was the ultimate fuck you.

It blows my brain she felt it was a conversation for fucking text – given I was at her flat the previous evening – to pick up a parcel she wanted me to return for her the next day.

And the time! Who the fuck does that! 9.30am; just got to the office, grabbed a coffee, sat at her desk and thought…before I get too busy and forget, better send that text, as if it was, “Morning, can you please pick me up some coconut milk today?”.

“Thinking a bit recently” - honoured to constitute ‘a bit’. What would it take to think ‘a lot”.

Date me as well? The privilege of being in brackets meant that I’m very special. How would you like to progress? Where to start.

Battered from months of abuse, this left me feeling totally worthless, with my self-esteem hanging by a thread. It was hard to accept that I meant nothing to her.

In 2022 she captivated me in ways I never believed possible. She was incredible, adorable and held in the highest regard.

By 2023, she was totally unrecognisable, and possessed the ugliest characteristics. She absolutely hated me and had the most devastating effect.

She asked the theme, menu and cuisine. Is she fucking joking? The theme? Fucking theme? I wish I’d said.. I wanted to work it in with the ambience you have a unique ability to always create, and gone with…... ‘Extremely Inhospitable Landscapes”

Fully aware now the threat she poses, my body instinctively responded. I know it’s coming as it’s all too familiar, I just don’t know what treats she had in store today.

After 15 minutes - feeling extremely uncomfortable and wanting to leave - no conversation and tension could be cut with a knife, remaining fixed to her phone with a frown and a snarl, she aggressively shouted,

“Why do you keep banging everything”. ” Can you just stop making noise”.

This fucking flat. Every time. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t hate it. She’s turned it into my fucking torture chamber.

Time again she’s so nasty. Why’s she treating me like this? What did I ever do to her?

I’m in every fucking room, bought that, bought that and that. I’m not just the wardrobes or cupboards, I’m fucking inside them too, the clothes, the shoes, the underwear.

Can’t even hide in the bathroom for respite because I’m in those cupboard too, perfumes, make-up and products.

Thousands and thousands of pounds, to be treated like this AGAIN!

I genuinely feel sick every time I look at it all. I despise it.

Awful fucking place, and the worst part…. I pay for its fucking existence.

Concerned the awkwardness caused in the first half hour wasn’t remotely uncomfortable enough, she decided it was time to up the ante.

Having expressed displeasure with my lack of organisation, haphazard menu and absence of theme, she determined the sufficient penalty was to make comparison to the great man and Chef De Cuisine Ali (her ex fiancé – he’s not a chef – but he is a narcissistic twat).

A great man whose severe alcoholism and constant lies, forced her to leave a flat she loved, city she lived, and left her crying every night feeling trapped living back with Mum in her early 30’s.

To leave no room for ambiguity regarding his culinary talent, she spent the day making regular comparisons between his greatness and my pitiful lack thereof.

Red Flag? fucking carnival.

Ali was the most amazing chef. Some of the best date nights they ever had was when he cooked. He was organised and planned meticulously. It followed a theme, a cuisine and each course flowed seamlessly.

Hopes of any leniency for my disgraceful lack of organisation and preparation sharply dismissed. Mitigating circumstances of working since 6am and just 45 minutes to shower, change, shop and arrive, made abundantly clear to be no justification or defence whatsoever.

Chef Ali would never stoop to uttering such pathetic excuses. He’s highly adaptable, many occasions demonstrating to also be a clever spontaneous chef, a maestro improviser with ability to produce wonderful flavours with few ingredients.

I was waiting for.... like a rock, a mouldy carrot and a used condom.

Her adulation just fell short of… Ali was such a prodigious talent, at the same time cooking his inspirational food, he would make me repeatedly orgasm, and just before seating for the wonderful culinary experience, he’d ejaculate all over me in an explosion of saffron and edible gold.

I got the appetiser up. She remained on the sofa eating: no comment; didn’t even fucking save one for me.

Starter: I’d watched Gordon Ramsey make scallop apple salad in 2 minutes at least 10 times. It didn’t look too hard. Well, Gordon, you might have hosted kitchen nightmares, but I’d like to see you cook your 2-minute scallops at “The Place of Eternal Torment”.

It went very wrong, so much harder than it looked. “2 minutes?”. “Ok, I’ll try one”; stone cold and raw.

After an hour, ensuring never to be disrespectful, She took to her feet and slumped herself at the table. She made crystal clear they were very bad and tasted like no scallop she’d eaten before. I’ll take it… happy with that… I’ve created a unique scallop dish… Ha... Fuck you Gordon

I served the chicken main ASAP. Showing her elite class - gracefully like a swan she rose up and with great dignity prised herself away from her phone.

She actually said it was ok, and provided constructive feedback… “it wasn’t a dish to follow scallops”. Really helpful to know for the next time I spend a day cutting my balls off with a rusty bread knife.

We hadn’t laughed once. She never came close to a smile. Other than ‘Chef Ali Roux Jr’ we barely spoke, and even then, it wasn’t conversation.

Not one human touch. In all fairness, the extreme physical distance she created between us made it impossible. She looked like fucking thunder, treating me like a stranger who she was forced at gunpoint to have in her flat.

I hated every second. After washing up I needed fresh air and said I was going for a walk. With time running out this was her last ‘Hail Mary’ provocation attempt.

Casually like it was a pint of milk she said..

“While you’re out can you pick me up a pregnancy test?”…

The saving grace… at least there’s no way it’s mine.

We’d not had sex in some time. I do really hope whoever the father is though - for his own sake… he knows how to fucking cook.

Odd she didn’t mention it at some point in the last 3 hours. An opportunity missed to tell me about Ali’s super sperm, and how he can simultaneously impregnate multiple women within a 20 metre radius whilst assembling a Croquembouche.

Being away 45 mins this imbecile returned thinking; that;s ample time to self-reflect and apologise… took 5 seconds to realise that wasn’t happening.

Handing her the pregnancy test and asking if she’s doing it now, with eyes remaining fixed to the TV… “No, when the film’s over”. She had literally started it. One assumes it’s not the normal reaction to wait 2 hours?

Back less than one minute, witnessing NO remorse, NO self-reflection and NO mood change, there was absolutely NO desire to see what more ammunition she had left to blow some more shit up.

Telling her desserts in the freezer, she remained slumped on the sofa and didn’t see me out or say thanks. In her defence, she needed to rest… she might be pregnant.

Leaving in a trance of bewildered confusion became an accepted norm. I’d always questioned why people didn’t leave abusive relationships - I now appreciate its complexity.

Because I still couldn’t detach from her. So fucked up ! Walking home, having only been kind and done no wrong I accepted full responsibility. Trauma bond? PTSD? Fuck knows.

I was very annoyed for being so disorganised and not practising the dishes - telling myself this wouldn’t have happened. Reality - I could have cooked like Marco Pierre White.. it was always going to happen - she decided that long before I’d even arrived.

They say no good deed goes unpunished - mine came at 2am - food poisoning, fucking food poisoning (raw scallop). All night vomiting, diarrhoea – 48 hours of it.

To show my fear; despite curled round the toilet, and vomit everywhere, feeling like death, all that went through my head was, “OMG, she’s got food poisoning. She’s going to fucking crucify me”.

Luckily she didn’t.

Strange - maybe I didn’t either, and instead it was “Toxicity Poisoning”.

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