Last night I got home from work at four and I wanted to make dinner, so I made some stuff and it went kind of wrong, but it actually tasted okay. Mashed up a load of spinach, broccoli and potatoes, roasted some butternut squash with some stuff. It was all good stuff, too many vegetables and whathaveyou.
About ten minutes after we’d finished, the craving for fried chicken kicked in, and intensified, for hours, until eventually we left the pub, bought a bucket of fried chicken and went home to eat it. In bed. As Luke fretted over crumbs and ran to get plates.
I may never change.
