So there I was, contentedly strolling home from the village, drenched despite my umbrella. In my other hand swung a carrier bag plump with a new jumper. As I approached the dog-legged walk-through which cuts five minutes off the journey, I could hear a man’s heavy footsteps getting quickly closer behind me. Call me paranoid if you wish, but I took the long route which brought me within sniffing-range of the takeaway. “Hmm,” said my inner alter-ego, the one who has no regard for calories, “it’s light years since I had a curry. I’d really like something hot and spicy.” And so, my will power being somewhat soggy due to the torrential rain, (she says, grasping straws - or should that be "oars"?), I thoroughly enjoyed a rather tasty chicken curry served on a bed of steamed rice.
Now, understand this: this household rarely dines on takeaway food. It’s expensive, often tastes mediocre at best, and tends to be saturated in goodness knows what kind of fat which is goodness knows how old. Old fat = heaps of free radicals.
Soooo…. 8.30pm came and went, and still he hadn't returned home from work. 9pm had faded history before the garden gate scraped its familiar squeak. As I opened the front door, there he was, holding aloft a fragrant carrier bag and wearing a big grin, (plus mandatory garments, I’ll add, before some smart aleck pipes-up). “Hey, erm, since it’s so late I got us dinner at the takeaway. Chicken curry sound good?”