Saturday is magic in my little world and not just for extra sleep. No matter the hangover or weather, we womble down to the end of the street round midday with our shopping baskets to buy pretty much all our weekly groceries at Borough Market.
It is an incredible place, a food mecca with so many varieties of mushroom it can goggle your brain. We knee through the crowds to pretty much the same stalls every Saturday -- geeky mr tofu, crazy stilton woman, giddy mushroom dip girl, old-skool one-pound-a-bowl man, the droopy eyed French cheesemongers and an eccentric veggie farmer who mans his stall with cute'n'earthy young lasses. After gawking at strangely arranged dead animals, scoffing a million cheese samples and stopping at the wine bar to read the papers, we roll home with our bags and bellies full. It's as enjoyable as shopping can get, our haul is cheap and it keeps us fed for ages... at least this is my standard line. It's probably a lie. I don't budget, I just make it up -- backed by a slightly pathalogical habit of convincing myself that everything I buy really cost at least 10% less.
So this week I'm taking notes on every pound and penny two of us spend on food. I don't anticipate any dinners at The Ritz, just day to day gob stuffing. Most painfully, booze is included. Results on the weekend. Argh.
I know it's wrong but I can't help looking.
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