Bury me in a click and lock tupperware.
Lay me out in a sandwich bag and may flights of lunchboxes guide me to my rest. Because if, as Freud suggests, handbags, purses and lunchboxes are a simulacrum of our vaginas, then I have spent my life knee deep in the square little plastic cunts. I love them.
And yet, nobody knows more keenly the hot, fumbled shame of revealing your box to a room of critical glances. The snide comments about your cold curry, the shocked stares at your lip-staining beetroot salad, the jokes at the expense of your fragrant cheese and brinjal pickle sandwiches.
A lunchbox is a missive from your home; a moulded plastic glimpse into how you cook, eat and live. It is probably the most personal piece of paraphernalia in your bag – far more exposing than the odd condom or nest of tampons. Because your lunchbox tells the world what your kitchen smells like, what you spend your money on, what was at the back of the fridge, what you slip down your gullet and whether you can cook.
Which is precisely why we need to break this bullshit lunchbox shaming loop immediately. To spend £4.99 on a freezing, mayonnaise-glutted sandwich, for fear of other people’s mockery, is not to each lunch. It is expensive, unhealthy, ecologically unsound and almost entirely unnecessary. According to three major WRAP studies in 2013, the UK last year wasted 12 million tonnes of food, 75% of which could have been avoided. If we just cut each other some slack about our approach to sloppy seconds then we could all eat better, cheaper and with less waste. We could feast on leftovers, make our own sandwiches, toss our own grains and pack our own veg pots, for a third of the price and in less time than it takes to buy a strip-lit meal deal.