I love food. I am a foody. A gourmand. A gourmet. All manner of gore-words. As much as I love to cook, I despise – truly despise – washing up. It’s probably because, the washing up isn’t solely created by me and Aimée. There are four raw-fed dogs and dozens of years worth of knick-knacks in this house. As such, there are about three sinks of washing to do at any given time and life’s too blasted short.

Hence, and it’s a rare treat, but I love going to restaurants. Because there’s no washing up. At least, there’s none for me. Plates appear, full of gorgeousness and flavour, I fall to rapture, practically take the pattern off the plate, and then, the plate is taken away. And I never have to deal with it.

My non-son Stephen is a chef at the Salty Monk in Sidford. He makes beautiful food. I’ll see if I can find some pictures.


If I can find some pictures! Of course I can find some pictures. It’s beautiful food, so of course, I have the pictures on my phone.


Normal people have pictures of the girlfriend, or their kids, dogs, perhaps some ideas for work. Not me. I have pictures of food.


Now, for the sake of contrast, here’s a picture of dog food as prepared by Aimée.


Can you imagine? I’m totally serious. This is dog food.


I live on pizza until it’s time to go and see Stephen in his restaurant, but the dogs get this  sort of stuff every day.

I think it may be time to go to Stephen’s place again.