Last night I watched a television commercial: two girls are comforting a third, their arms about her, expressions concerned as she sniffs and weeps into her hankerchief. She has, it transpires, been dumped by her boyfriend – James, I think.
Between sobs Broken Heart’s friends faces suddenly brighten with the light bulb moment of a brilliant idea and they proffer a box of muesli. Hey presto, Broken Heart wolfs down a bowl of ”deluxe ingredients” and minces out in red cocktail dress and high heels snarling, ”James? Who’s James?”
It’s not the speed at which she manages to shrug off the love rat, it’s the bloody cereal that gets me. I’ve had my fair share of Broken Heart moments, tears spilling down (much younger) cheeks as girlfriends in London offered kind (actually quite man-damning) words and solace. Which never, ever came in form of oats, nuts and blueberries. Wine, whiskey, chocolate and fags, yes, never a bowl of sodding muesli. That wouldn’t have done the trick at all.