We like to put people into categories, don't we? Gender, religion, social class. These are all important. But when it comes down to it, there are fundamentally only two types of person on the planet.
Spiller. And non-spiller. I fall quite heavily into the first group.
However hard I try, whatever I eat will do its level best to decorate my clothing. Thick sauces are the worst. Like a salmon drawn to the river source, anything that started out on my food will find its way onto me. It's magnetic attraction.
You can, if you examine my wardrobe, quite easily map out my dietary history. There are some things that a warm wash cycle just won't shift. The period when we went all Italian? Look, here's evidence of balsamic vinegar on my polo shirt. That Thai phase? I swear I can detect red curry paste on that sleeve.
Other people seem to be perfectly capable of putting food and drink in their mouths. Oh, how I envy these paragons of gastronomy, their clothing untainted by custards, gravies or stews.
I try to argue that it's some form of diet - after all, if the calories don't make their way into my system, they're not going to hit my hips. This doesn't wash with Katie. If you'll pardon the pun.
It came to a head last night. We were at a Really Quite Posh event. I was tuxedo'd to the maximum. Bow tie, dress shirt, the full shebang. Here is photographic evidence:
This photo is officially referred to as BME. Or Before the Mustard Event.
Despite the surroundings, the event and the formality, I spilled. Despite the fact that I was sat next to my wife and opposite my mother, I spilled. Despite the fact that I was wearing a quite expensive Daniel Hechter dress shirt, I spilled.
English mustard is surprisingly yellow, isn't it?