The sound of sobbing from the local take-aways, as their profit margins shrink...

A couple of months ago a friend (last seen lying on a beach between three smoking hot women, the bastard) pointed out that the fact that
a) I wasn’t cooking for him when he came round and
b) I was having to rotate through the take-aways for the food I was ordering for us (so the kebab place didn’t get too many nights on the trot)

was expensive and unhealthy and ought to be an indication that I should be, you know, cooking occasionally.

And since I am supposed to be saving cash (Plans Afoot) and being less grotesquely hypocritical and unsustainable…

voila.

To be frozen, and joined by other stuff (lentils, rice, tofu etc etc) and then nuked when the Sirens of Kebab start singing.

Good god. Is Dwight Towers… growing up?