1) “We claim to be a nation of foodies, yet vegetables still mystify many cooks - especially those weird specimens that turn up in the weekly organic box.”
2) “It’s cold outside, so snuggle up. That’s the only way to get a good night’s sleep at
3) “It’s the stench of stale lentils and damp wool around the organic veg stall at the farmers’ market that makes Wednesdays what they are, especially when the only reason you are anywhere near this crew at all is to escape a similarly deluded self-righteousness in the workplace as the midweek slump kicks into gear yet a-fucking-gain and the promise of a free glass of mulled wine at the inevitable company Christmas do is failing to keep the light on.”
Well, I don’t go to or host dinner parties, nor have a weekly delivery from someone wearing a cushion cover. And what is it about the tone that tells me the only reason I might want to stay the night in an igloo hotel is so that I have something worth being alive for in the eyes of my supposed mates? Is the middle-class brand so transparent that the national media can confidently join in, chortling at their big joke?
Tonight I made sandwich for tea, two thick slices of sesame seed bread toasted and topped with grilled best bacon, green peppers and melting