She sighed as she emptied the vegetable drawer of her fridge. Yet again, she had made a particularly conscientious trip to the market, and yet again, she was cleaning out the remains of the armfuls of delicious vegetables that she had staggered home with. She had made soup. And an omelet.
She breathed out as she picked up the bag of cucumbers. They were no longer solid, and some of the dripping juice flicked onto the leg of her jeans. Now she needed to do a wash too.
Having disposed of most of the contents of the fridge, cleaned it and the rest of the kitchen and put her jeans in the wash, she sat and flicked on the telly. Yet another TV chef with fresh veggies that snapped when they were supposed to (although it had been funny to see a carrot that could bend three-hundred-and-sixty degrees). She groaned, changed the channel to a forensic crime show where the goo of the decomposing body looked disturbingly familiar, and dialed the pizza shop.