Hunger comes about as it always does—about every half hour. I’m like a kid with worms. In the kitchen, the fridge contains food that’s not really food. Butter. Ketchup. A few eggs. I don’t mind eggs, but they’ll never quench a hunger like mine. In the cupboard where the spiders lurk, there’s a tin of potatoes. I fetch a tin opener and pour the potatoes into a saucepan. It’s not exactly a feast. Even with some butter and salt, it won’t feed me the way I deserve to be fed, yet money is tight. Well, it’s less about a lack of money and more about laziness. I can’t be bothered to cook properly. I’m like one of those kids who gets left at home while their parents go on holiday and ends up eating nothing but ice lollies. I love to eat, but only if someone else is doing the cooking. Don’t get me wrong, I can cook—have cooked—but only if it’s a special occasion. On a day like today, it’s all about those lazy potatoes. When the potatoes are done I don’t even bother serving them. Just eat them straight from the pan. Saves on the washing up. They don’t fill my belly, because my belly has tasted delights far beyond these culinary hells. Instead, I pretend I’m scoffing a Sunday roast. Shit loads of chicken and gravy. Yorkshire puddings. Stuffing. The whole shebang. What it’s in my mouth is paltry, yet with a little imagination, it fills me the same way a kiss does.