The Curse of Old Mother Hubbard.

I hate shopping, particularly food shopping, but there are times when I wish I didn't - like tonight.
I went to THE pub this evening to meet my mutant pals and discuss topics of import - what's the longest you have gone without changing your pants, if you could be a gastropod which one would you be and would you swap your penis for a pair of breasts? etc. I baled out relatively early and returned to Pither Towers feeling somewhat peckish and so decided to rustle up something appetising as I could not afford to call Dial-Some-Stodge.
I swung open the fridge door, was hit by the glaring searchlight inside and then noticed something strange - an echo! There was bugger all in the fridge! Well, that's not entirely true. There was an egg, but it had a beak and legs! There was also a sausage on a dish but, like Saddam Hussain is now, it was green and hairy - not a good sign. There was a jar of mayonnaise, a tomato which was as spongy and wrinkled as one of Methuselah's testicles, a wilting stick of celery and a pack of bloodworms (food for my fish).
Challenging, I thought. What would Nigella Lawson do in my situation? She would book herself in at The Ivy, that's what she'd fucking do! Seeing as I had spent the last of my money on beer, that was not an option open to me.
I could have waited for the egg to fully hatch and had a mini-roast chicken? On second thoughts, I couldn't have spared the time. I could have shaved the sausage or burnt the beard off under the grill and had a hotdog covered in bloodworms (without the bun). Finally, I could have used the celery stick to scoop mayonnaise out of the jar. Sadly, it was not stiff enough to be fit for purpose (where have I heard that before?)
I soon realised that whatever dish I prepared would be accompanied by the same dessert - food poisoning and a night on the lav!
At one point I actually glanced over at the dogs' bowls on the kitchen floor and noticed that one of them still contained some of the stew-like Woofo Meatychunks I had dished out to the chaps earlier. Unfortunately, my alsatian saw where I was looking and, in return, fixed me with a determined stare and growled menacingly. Ok, bad idea.
It was all my fault. You see, with Christmas you inherit a fridge so laden with goodies that you never think it will be empty again. As a result, you just live off this over-stuffed machine and don't bother to buy more food.
It's all about timing, the restocking business. Sadly, my timing was out and so Pither is going to bed hungry tonight. Well, Western world hungry. How spoilt have we become?