The potatoes of desire
Today was grocery day. As usual, the Asda van turned up with a fortnight’s worth of cakes and a tin of peas. Goodness knows what we’re supposed to do with a tin of peas; I can’t remember ordering them.
I picked up a bag of spuds that had also found their way onto our order. “Aha!” I said, “we’ve got some of those derisory potatoes.”
Shana shot me. A quizzical glance. (Eh? Oh, bit of a slip-up on the punctuation front there. That last bit should read: ‘Shana shot me a quizzical glance’. Phew, thank gawd for that!)
Anyway, it turns out they weren’t ‘derisory’ potatoes after all, but ‘desirées’. Quite frankly, I don’t mind what they’re called, so long as they don’t taste derisory.
Bangers and mash, anyone?