During my irregular weekly visit home yesterday my mother noticed my half-finished dinner and sat down to have a chat with me, gently probing as to whether I'm upset about anything. Even, perhaps, trying to ascertain whether her 15 stone son might somehow be masking an eating disorder of some kind.
I had to carefully explain to her my occasional practice of what I like to call 'second lunch', which had yesterday included five slices of Vienna roll and a ready-made pancake. There may be things wrong, here and there, but her little boy's appetite is going nowhere. I had a Snickers later, too.