Will’s World: Past pasty experience comes back to haunt me
© Richard Stanton Someone mentioned Cornish pasties in a conversation recently, and I was instantly transported back to a particularly distressing incident in the middle of an extremely busy Euston Station.
You may think it odd that a person could be traumatised by a pasty – or any other baked good, for that matter – but if you’re a regular reader of this column you’ll have realised that embarrassing mishaps do seem to follow me around.
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About the author
I’m always envious of those insouciant individuals who seem to effortlessly glide through life with neither care nor calamity while I, despite my best efforts, regularly end up making Mr Bean look like the epitome of grace and precision.
Well, a few years back I was an Oxford Farming Conference director.
I’m a big believer in ordinary working farmers being on industry boards to represent our communities and present our views, and decided to put my money where my mouth was.
Don’t ask me how, but I even ended up chairing the thing.
It was an incredible experience, and I made a lot of great friends, but I did spend the entire time I was involved suffering with chronic imposter syndrome, being just a simple tenant farmer from Wrexham.
Anyway, for the first several months I managed to wing it, because during the Covid lockdown all our meetings took place online. But when things opened up again, I found myself on a train to London.
My social anxiety is hard to manage at the best of times, but after several months of barely being off farm, it was all I could do to not jump out at the next station and sprint back home.
I’d worried for days previously about what I should wear, and made a big effort to look smart and professional.
I’d had a haircut, was freshly shaved, and I’d gone with a classic combo of chinos, jacket, shirt and tie, and brogues.
After a few hours of deep breathing to try to calm myself, I was feeling relatively good by the time I arrived in the big smoke.
In the rush to get everything done that morning, though, I’d forgotten breakfast. So when I saw a Cornish pasty stand in the station, I headed over to purchase one of their finest.
I found a small gap in the crowd at the edge of the forecourt, put down my bag and eagerly bit into it.
And one of my front teeth came out.
I’d smashed the real ones out as a kid, and they’re crowns, but still, I’d never lost one before. And it happens now?
Fortunately, I felt it come loose, and didn’t swallow it, so I rushed off to the terribly glamorous and ever-so-hygienic station toilets to wash the half-chewed beef and pastry off it.
I looked in the mirror as I scrubbed and saw just a black metal spike that the tooth should be fastened to, realising with no small degree of horror that I now bore an uncanny resemblance to Cletus Spuckler, the hillbilly character from The Simpsons.
Realising that I was short of time, however, I shoved the tooth back on and had to keep it in place with my tongue as I rushed off on the hour-long walk (I was too nervous at that point to take the Tube).
I arrived at the meeting breathless, sweating and dishevelled, hardly able to talk properly, and very stressed indeed.
Say what you like about farming, but at least you can turn up for work looking like a hillbilly and no one will give you a second glance.