I am a potato. I am nothing else. A big fermenting potato, drowning in its potato-ness. Sat here at my dining room table, I am drinking my blood with a dash of cranberry juice to add colour and thus realism. I take my glass with dying brown stalks for arms and puffy fingers where the pus is pushing through and imbibe myself with a pseudo relish and a hunger for more. 1 am - in effect - eating myself Once I was a new potato, sweet and ready for delicate dish such as fish. I found that being a new potato allowed me to go places that other vegetables could not go, especially places where pretty pieces of veal lounged on plates with mange-tout. Sometimes I played around with an avocado salad. Then things changed and I became a steak man in my oven baked jacket, preferring more gutsy food that satisfied my growing appetite. I wanted to feel full and my weathered skin protected me from the pepper sauce. I lolled around a plate, smooching with butter and cheese, pretending that I was more healthy than the days when chip fat was my only friend. Now I sit and think of the old days, angry that they were snatched from me by changes in peoples' habits and Rosemary Conley's successful diet programs. My name is Daniel and I am . . . a potato. Once upon a time, my sister would still speak to me and invite me round to share the platter with her husband who is a parsnip. She's a carrot: they are great together. I used to take my girlfriend Molly. She was so beautiful in her round elegant sauteed skin but one day I woke up and I had rolled over in my sleep and accidentally mashed her beyond recognition. My name is Daniel and I am a . . . potato. My childhood home was a warm forgiving earth that made allowances for imperfections in colour and texture but it doesn't want me back any-more. My other home - the one I dug myself- is the same. They say I'm not allowed to visit and made me sign papers to give the custody of my little Rosemary's to my bitch of a wife, Linda. She isn't what she used to be: you'd think she'd be desperate due to those nasty purple mouldy blotches shets got on her faces. They say I made those by attaching her with a peeler but they all lie. So I am here, laughing at them. When the cranberry has run out, I'll drink it neat. After all, it's not the first time I've drunk my way through four cartons of orange juice, one tomato and three cranberry. I always used to drink neat before I got an allowance. They pay me to be a cannibal, now. Say it keeps me off the streets. I used to live by the gutter of a supermarket. No, I never lived there. I'm a potato. People wanted me, they wanted to share my company. They liked eating at me. They ate me. They ate me and all that's left, I drink to keep myself going. I'm frightened. I'm alone. My family has forgotten . . . because . . My name is Daniel and I am an alcoholic. I drink vodka . . its cheap. I am vodka. I am a potato. I am nothing else.   © 1998

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