MY OLD landlord was teetering on senility, so when he invited me for dinner and I told him the only thing I didn’t eat was seafood, naturally he served me mussels. I kept sending him into the kitchen for more chianti, taking the opportunity to stuff molluscs and stray strands of spaghetti into the pockets of my jeans.
I’m a grown woman, though, and I suspect my seafood horror is merely a foolish childhood fear of creepy crawlies, goo and tentacles. I got over mushrooms, so surely I can get over this.
Down at the Espy, I opt for the Exposure Therapy approach and decide to order the most rubbery/crunchy plate of exoskeletons I can find. Squeal! “Eat the bit coming out of the end,” my comrade Clare advises of a bug’s bum, which is good advice, as I was about to tackle the shell. It’s surprisingly tasty.
Keeper? Sure! Only the calamari rings and pink squishy bits end up spat in the napkin.
Hey man, now you're really living 
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