Mad Dash

Each Wednesday evening I tutor a GCSE student a short bus ride away. After I have finished tutoring, I catch the bus up the road, hop out at the fish and chip shop, hand over my £1.50, leap out of the shop and onto the next bus, wrapping the chip bag in my scarf and hustling it up against my coat. I urge the bus on as it makes its stately progress; as it arrives at my stop I jump out and start running, head down against the cold, the chip bundle clasped tightly, like a rugby player charging across the pitch. Along the road I go, gasping at the icy air and exertion, while inside my partner stirs the eggs in the measuring jug, warms the butter for the omelettes, steams the spinach leaves. Finally, we unwrap the chips, douse them in vinegar and scatter the salt over them. They have a certain glamour, these chips.