Dinner was eaten on the floor

And it was fantastic.

I came home from work late-ish, via the bus no less (our car is being serviced). Something about me being on the bus seems to angry up our inner city homeless population, and while I want to embrace public transport, it's shall we say, a struggle.

My husband is a chef. Lets look at a few myths about being married to a chef:

I must eat restaurant quality food every night!

No, I eat a lot of toast because my husband is rarely at home to cook and I am a lazy arsehole who likes toasted bread products.

You must get to be a VIP in restaurants!


No, my husband may know the floor staff, ,but it's likely he has shouted at them.  If he knows the chefs (and truth be told, he does know many chefs) the chefs are stuck in the kitchen running a service.  As for being a VIP in his restaurant, that's even less likely.  It's place of work, and chef wives don't swan around, rather they grab a cloth and wipe tables.

He must love Masterchef!

Nothing makes a chef grumpier than Masterchef.  People who feel a career in food will allow them to be creative  Because it is terribly creative to cook 150 covers in two hours.  People who want a career in food, but won't do the long hard slog that an apprenticeship involves.  Or those that feel they are too educated to be an apprentice.  Newsflash - my husband has a double degree and first class honours.  In film studies.  Which is why he a chef.

Anyway, my husband had been given a wheel of very expensive, very luscious, soft French cheese and rather than commit to dinner, we ate the stinky cheese, along with smoked salmon, olives and caviar.  We sat on the floor, watching Futurama and drinking cheap red wine, and it was the best end to my Monday that I could have hoped for.