A pot pourri...

of pain overlaid with a large dollop of snobbery.

 Not natural bedfellows I agree. Since being laid up with my gammy leg, I have been unable to indulge in my usual get up and get at ‘em M.O. As a consequence I have craved fuss, indulgence, nubile young men dancing attendance 24/7. Gromit my trusty turn-to in times of need has been packed in readiness for the move.  Himself questioning the need for my being ahead of the packing game with weeks to spare has been silenced as suddenly he can see where I was coming from.  That’s a first in itself!

Alright, alright, where does the partnership of pain and snobbery come in I can hear you thinking... or maybe not?

Well along with the flowers, the choccies, the whole jelly and blancmange scenario, decorated with hundreds and thousands, naturally.  Comfort food is what 

is required.  Never in my long and
 varied life have I ever thought 
of a fish finger sandwich.  That’s a lie maybe I have with true cordon bleu sniffyness, had occasion to think...how very common!

Yes, you’ve guessed it... feebly, frail of voice I requested, nay demanded hubs should venture forth and buy high-end fish fingers.  He returned looking forlorn...

‘Will Capt. Birdseye do, it’s the

 best Hythe has to offer?’ 

‘I suppose so,’ I weakly replied.

A panini full of fish fingers and ketchup were just what the doctor should have ordered instead of an orthopaedic surgeon appointment.

How has the deliciousness of such humble fare passed me by?

Snobbery of a culinary kind, that’s how!