Not quite Niagara-on-the-Lake

This weekend, my husband took me to a food festival in his childhood hometown . Being a bit of a foodie I was very excited to experience some new fare, be introduced to a new culinary experience. Visions of checkered table cloths, hand pressed cider, plump organic vegetables tumbling out of wicker baskets came to mind. Excitement heightened when I further discovered it was by a waterfront.

With the sun shining, the whole day ahead of us and promises of fairground rides, artisan tents and food glorious food - I couldn't be more excited. I could hear the reassuring thumping of the rhythm section of a band playing in the distance. There was live music too! This is what I'm talking about.

As we got closer I started catching glimpses of crowds - large large crowds. Not big crowds but crowds of big people. It occured to me to ask my husband what the name of this festival was. In his infinite wisdom, my husband had put strategy around getting us to a WING festival. Wings, as in the things that are grown in petri dished by the likes of KFC, dropped into boiling fat and covered in monosodium glutomate. The kinds of wings you'd expect to see a pack of teenage boys with crotches to their knees eating, out of soggy cardboard boxes sitting in a Toyota Corolla.

There were more perms, tattoos and mullets than a back street dockers pub in 1970s Liverpool. For a moment I thought we'd walked onto the set of The Goonies. Still, it was sunny.

To be fair it was my husband's first time too, he wasn't to know and not to be too precious, it was kind of fun in a 12 Monkeys sort of way. So this was my husband's heritatge. Ok. Fair enough. In sickness and in health and all that malarkey. And then I watched in horror as he devoured half a pound of hot chicken wings like he'd just been released from a Japanese prisoner of war camp.

You think you know someone.