I call it a food husband.

I don’t have even a modicum of self-control, doing a food shop for a week in which Timothy is absent. Suddenly all dietary bets are off. He might be away with work for the next nearly-fortnight, but I can keep a pile of books at my elbow and the kitchen cupboards will greet me like smiling, fatty friends. (I don’t mention their fattiness to their faces. It seems mean.)

Here’s what I had in my trolley after we’d toured every aisle and revisited the cheese counter twice for a Serious Think:

One (1) chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle

One (1) large carton of Ambrosia custard

One (1) bar of Lindt dark orange chocolate

One (1) massive slab of cranberry Wensleydale cheese

Eight (8) extra-large crumpets

One (1) jar of Nutella

Four (4) cartons of Innocent smoothie (Henry’s treat)

One (1) pot of caramel Ben & Jerry’s

Two (2) Chicago Town double cheese pizzas

One (1) metric ton of fish fingers

Once I’d seen the size of the pile, I reluctantly put back the ice cream and Nutella. I wouldn’t want to go overboard.

Though now I am kicking myself for forgetting the doughnuts.

Hello pizza, my cheesy delicious new friend, said Henry. Can’t wait to see you again at dinner for the rest of my life.

Endorphins. Not E-numbers. Honest.

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