MY kitchen is making strange noises.
At first I don't know what they are, but as I listen intently, and the whimpering noises get louder, it all becomes clear.
My kitchen is feeling sorely neglected. The beloved pots and pans remain untouched and my cookery books are gathering dust.
I've eaten out twice this week already, which is pretty unprecedented, since it's usually reserved for the weekend.
I think my kitchen fears life will never be the same again.
On Monday night I met an old pal for dinner at Zizzi in the Mailbox.
It's been about six years since we last saw one another and we had so much to catch up on I forgot what we ate.
Like that's going to happen.
I think I freaked her out by remembering that when we'd met at a mutual mate's 21st birthday, at TGI Fridays, we'd both ordered chicken Caesar salads.
"Ah, my Caesar salad phase," she confirmed.
The memory of an elephant (and the appetite of one), the boy often says through gritted teeth.
So back to the food. We shared a Fiorentina pizza, which is the one with the egg on, although I requested it without the egg, but this fell on deaf ears. I survived though.
We also shared a chicken salad which, when it arrived, didn't look how either of us expected as the chicken/mayo mix was atop a piece of toasted ciabatta, and there were leaves and a fanned avocado on the side.
It was tasty and we scoffed the lot, still finding room to enjoy a sinful chocolate torte with mascarpone.
Then last night I again, ditched the kitchen.
On the way to see Tina Turner, the boy and I dashed into the Handmade Burger Company for speedy eats before we hit Nutbush City Limits.
Having been disappointed by the fish finger sandwich I had last time, I played it safe and went for a sweet chilli chicken burger and my caution paid off. It was (simply) The Best.
Meanwhile, the boy loved his beef balti burger. The chips were good too.
But the guilt had set in. I was starting to feel bad for so much enjoying a meal cooked outside of the confines of my own kitchen.
For the rest of the week, I will brush away the cobwebs from my kitchen cupboards, polish the food processor and whip up something of my own design, in the vain hope my kitchen will forgive me for my betrayal...