Walking Down The Memory Lane Of Guilt

A couple of weeks ago I was invited by a friend to become a restaurant critic for the evening together with two other friends. All four of us met for a drink beforehand and we were all excited about the free meal [including drinks, mind you] we were going to indulge in as long as we gave our feedback the following day. No problem. It was a Spanish restaurant chain that had just opened a new venue at Spitalfields. We decided to start with a variety of tapas followed by a paella to share. We all enjoyed the tapas but agreed that the paella was too salty. Well, you asked for our comments and we're not going to lie to you. The wine was of course fabulous.

Today I met up with another old friend, Jane, who I haven't seen in over a year. Shocking, I know, but that's London for you. We were catching up on everything we'd been up to in the year that's gone by and of course I told her about my evening at the Spanish restaurant where my opinion counted. After I'd told her in detail about the evening I finished the sentence by saying: "It's not every day you get a meal for free". Jane quickly replied: "Oh Helena, you've been known to getting free meals before", with a slight twinge of sarcasm in her voice. I could feel the shame making me blush and I looked down at the table in embarrassment. What she was referring to is something I had managed to block out of my mind after having suffered from severe guilt-pangs for months after it happened.

Jane and I used to be work colleagues. This "incident" happened about three years ago. This was way before the credit crunch and the company where we were working invited all its employees to a summer party. They'd hired a huge tent on the South Bank and drinks were flowing. However, there was not food enough to line the stomachs of the hundreds of staff attending. The party took place on an unusually sunny afternoon and it was scorching hot that day. Hot, sunny weather + lots of wine - food = seriously drunk.

It was only around 6pm when I decided that I'd had enough and it was time to go home. I was going to walk along South Bank to my home which is a 40 minute walk in a sober state. As I walked past a certain noodle restaurant [which I shall not name here for reasons which will soon become obvious] I realised how hungry I was and popped in for dinner. When I had nearly finished my meal the devil entered my head and this little voice asked "How difficult would it be to walk out of here without paying?". I quickly looked around and in my drunken haze spotted my waitress going into the kitchen. With noodles still hanging from my chopsticks I quickly grabbed my handbag and walked towards the exit. I stopped for a split second. Should I take a left and go to the ladies then return to my seat and ask for the bill? Or should I take a right and go out of the door and see what happened? I took a right turn. I held my head high and walked out with as much confidence a drunk person can muster. I didn't dare to turn around to see if I was being followed by a mob of angry waiters wanting to attack me with saucepans. To begin with I walked fast but slowed down after a while when I realised that nobody was going to come after me and have me arrested. That's when I had a fit. I started to giggle. I was giggling, feeling really smug about having "saved myself" £6.50. The more I giggled the more my shoulders would jump up and down. It then turned into laughter. I thought what I'd just done was hysterically funny. And let me remind you that all this happened while I was being alone. I've got nobody to blame but myself.

Let me tell you that the next day I didn't giggle anymore. The shame I felt was a.w.f.u.l. For a while I was considering going back to the restaurant and pay my bill. I used to be a waitress and if someone did a runner on me it came out of my wages. I felt so bad for what I'd done!
So, thanks Jane, for reminding me of it. It will keep me awake tonight. Cheers!