A Royale with cheese

There’s a scene in Pulp Fiction where Vincent Vega, (played by John Travolta), explains to Jules Winnfield (played by Samuel L Jackson), that in Europe, they don’t call it a quarter pounder with cheese - they call it a Royale with cheese. It’s a small detail, but it adds a layer of sophistication to something ordinary. That’s how I felt recently.

I went to my local pub, The Eastney Tavern, with my wife for lunch. I ordered the quarter pound cheeseburger. And I ate it all, every scrap. On my own. Without making a mess. Without fumbling or covering myself in burger relish or the surrounding area with remnants of my scran and without feeling like a fool. I doubt the other people in my vicinity are even looking or really give a rat's ass about how I’m eating, but my sometimes out of control ego mind tells me otherwise.

It might sound small. But for me, it’s monumental.

After recent MS attacks, I’ve had virtually no use of my left hand and only limited ability in my right. Along with the inconvenience of the impaired mobility comes a dark depression and the question of whether it will or can return in some form. Dexterity - something most people take for granted - became a distant luxury and I’ve worked hard to reclaim it. Slowly. Painfully. Determinedly. And today, I held that burger, lifted it like a champ, and ate it with a hint of normality.

It wasn’t just a meal. It was a victory.

In a life that often feels like a stream of loss, any gain is massive. This one - this Royale with cheese, felt like forward momentum, gaining that golden inch. A moment of dignity. A reclaiming of self-esteem. I didn’t just eat a burger. I proved again to myself that the graft and the philosophy of never giving in,

combined with hope and faith works.

I am grateful. For the progress. For the strength. For the small victory.

And yes, for the cheeseburger!