A potent memory from one of the more unedifying periods of my life: regularly working late enough to find myself too exhausted or disinclined to cook, completing my commute with minutes to spare before the nearest shop within any reasonable distance closed, and traipsing up and down the aisles, attempting to coax out of hiding – or else will into existence – something more appetising than a microwaveable meal. Usually, this performance ended in succumbing to the most yellow-stickered curry.
Sometimes, though, I would refuse this miserable end. I would stoically scour the remaining available takeaway options across the delivery apps and drop more than is advisable on a meal. It would invariably arrive lukewarm after midnight; I’d feel too tired to stay awake, but also completely unable to sleep. Then my alarm for the following morning would sound and I would begin this sordid little ritual all over again.
