I had a moment of culinary clarity last Tuesday.
1pm - or 'lunch time' to we of the rat-race - rolled around. That someone should dictate the hour at which I eat is thoroughly fucking irking. How dare you! How dare you decide when I should take on sustenance. This is one of Thailand's great attributes - one simply has to utter the hallowed 'hui' and every fucker in earshot runs around in a delirious frenzy:
QUICK, SOMEONE'S HUNGRY! FEED HIM! FEED THE FUCKER NOW!
Anyway, back in the 21st century.
My local cafe does a tremendous line in jacket potatoes. I usually plump for the tuna mayo; occasionally diversifying with chicken and avacado; and once in a while, when Im feeling deliciously decadent, a few liberal ladles of chilli, bubbling under a thick blanket of extra mature cheddar - MmmmMmmm. Fantastic. I love food.
But on Tuesday, the proprietress informed me that they were regrettably fresh out of everything I liked.
"We 'av got some bacon, though. You want some bacon and brie, love?"
I replied in the affirmative, and in jest, as parochial British types do, told her not to scrimp.
And she didn't. The mad wench loaded the spud up with half a wheel of brie and 10 rashers of bacon.
I ate it. I ate it all. I felt the blood in my arteries coagulate. My vision became blurred. My stomach turned in tumultous waves. I seriously feared for my life.
Had I been bested by a fucking baked potato?
That afternoon, as the brouhaha began to settle, I vowed that I should start eating a healthy and balanced diet. Lots of fruit. Lots of veg. Fish wherever possible. Plenty of water.
So on the Wednesday I opted for a prawn and avacado salad sandwich on wholemeal bread with mininal mayonaise. This I washed down with bottle of sparkling mineral water.
In Tescos that evening I agonised over the supper choices. The hour was late, and cooking was out of the question. I needed a ready meal. A healthy ready meal which wasn't glowing with chemicals. And with this little box of delights I think I struck gold.
Root veg mash, people. Root veg!
However, once I arrived home it became apparent, upon inspecting the packaging for cooking instructions, that I'd overlooked one vital piece of information. This ready meal was only suitable for microwaving - and I don't have a microwave.
15 minutes later I was staring this badboy in the face...
'Tis an intricately woven tapestry... both life and that pizza.