Sunday Lunch, Sunday Lunch

The potatoes went in at half twelve with real confidence. Somewhere around two the confidence left the kitchen and did not return. Nobody has eaten. Everyone has had crisps. The crisps have ruined us and we will still be expected to have seconds.

It is never about the job. It is about the flat, and the fact that I do not own it, and a cousin who does, and who is mentioned exactly once per meal with the casualness of a man laying a trap he built in March.