There was an evening last week in which I really, really needed a Pot Noodle. I was on my third day without sleep, so congested my head felt like a balloon full of angry chalk, and unable to eat without feeling like I was suffocating. So I wasn’t eating. And then BAM – at 9.30pm, in the middle of our Hunted pyjama party, the light appeared. I would eat the heck out of a Pot Noodle, as long as it was chicken and mushroom flavour.
So this boy I love yielded to my rubbish hinting, changed out of his pyjamas, and went out on a Pot Noodle quest at 9.30pm. (‘Chicken and mushroom!’ I reminded him seven times. ‘The green one. It has to be the green one’.) He came back not only with a Pot Noodle but with three multipacks of crisps, some mango juice, and two bags of chocolate. We put one bag in the top cupboard we never use, ‘so we’ll forget about it, and then one evening it’ll be a nice surprise’. Unfortunately we remembered about it the next day. That was short-lived.
I couldn’t taste any of it, and I didn’t sleep that night, either. But I knew it was delicious. And this guy, well. Ten thousand times better.