Clive wasn’t what could be called a conservative. More of a middle of the road man. Sort of a non-adventurous-but-I’ll-occasionally-give-things-a-go person. Kind of a... well, a good-solid-do-okay-but-never-quite-get-to-the-top individual.
He would never, of course, have dared name his children Soufflé and Fondue. No! He had an Ann and a John. At work, it was the same. Utterly dependable. Reliable to a T.
He worked for a cardboard carton company. In fact, Clive was the plant manager. Part of his job was to take prospective clients out to lunch. Here comes one now! They went to a modest Mexican restaurant. The prospective client ordered beef tongue.
“Tongue!” exclaimed Clive. “That’s disgusting!”
“It’s delicious!” said the prospective client.
“Would you like to try some?” asked the waiter.
“Try some?” snapped Clive. (He was almost uncharacteristically emotional). “That’s disgusting! You won’t find me eating something that’s been in an animal’s mouth. Yuck!”
Clive ordered eggs.