A great poem on just how awkward your life can be if you have to be gluten free
Possessing a biological knowledge of the small intestine,
as useful as the unattended embarrassment
of knowing your audience have lost interest in your spiel,
and are regretting their outburst of “Gluten! What’s that then?”
(also occasionally uttered by restaurateurs, to the backdrop of your heart sinking).
Politely refusing the offer of biscuits/mini rolls/pork pies
with a frenzied prayer that the birthday girl does not take your rebuttal
as a slight on her snack-providing skills,
and respond by gradually making you the office, family, or cul-de-sac pariah.
The disgusted refusal to part with £3 for a load of bread,
although less, nowadays, than the price of a pint
– of cider, because you can’t have beer.
Incredulous, as previously innocuous chocolates, crisps and frozen potato products
are now to be approached as toxic –
at least until someone invents as cheap and marketable a flavouring as ‘barley malt’
(perhaps you one…
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