I like food. I spend a lot of time thinking about it, love eating it and will ask unsettlingly detailed questions about what you have tea. Tell me about a new restaurant and I will be there. I am always good for a recommendation and I usually have to apologise as I talk you through the menu. The bookshelves are bending under the weight of the cookery books. I can cook. Pretty well, actually. I’ve recently stopped asking my husband “what if I can do this?” when I knock up a meal because no one needs that emotional neediness. I can bake. When it comes to food I think I have an element of sophistication.
But I don’t. I am a massive child. My friend sent me a picture of her son enjoying boiled eggs with soldiers. Delicious boiled eggs with soldiers. I was so jealous! I haven’t had that for years so I’m now planning this at the weekend.
The monkeys are not safe near me when there are fish fingers in offing. I will mine sweep the lot. Especially if there are oven chips and beans about too. Heaven.
Give me a bland sandwich with the crusts cut off, a few Hula Hoops and a weak carton drink and I am happy as a splash. Follow that up with an individual raspberry jelly and a handful of dolly mixtures and I may pass out with joy.
Sometimes I forget that these things make me happy but I have just polished off too many rounds of cheese spread on white toast to remind myself. Now I must go and hunt for a Freddo…