Feeding hungry mouths. Either my own or my delightful and slightly crazy customers.
What I am actually doing: Sitting up in bed with an empty bottle of Lucozade and a bad back that has come from lying in bed for nearly 24 hours. I. am. Sick. Not in a disturbed, creepy way. Not in ghetto amazing way. No. I am sick in a sickly, poorly, feeling sorry for myself way. I have not eaten anything for 2 days, and this my friends is why I am weeping inside.
I am on the road to recovery. I know this for the following reasons:
I have thought about Spaghetti Bolognese approximately 2.1 times in the last hour.
I read an article on Guardian online about the perfect Scrambled Eggs and the descriptions and pictures didn't want to make me vomit.
I have been nostalgically thinking about spending evenings in France drinking cheap red wine mixed with summer berry Fanta.
All the signs are pointing to recovery.