I am cooking the children's supper, and look up from the hob and over to the calendar on the kitchen wall.
And however delicious Nigel Slater's midweek supper might look, Wednesday nights, for most, are spent prostrate on the sofa trying to ignore emails.
When I saw him a couple of weeks ago, for what I now know with infinite sadness to have been the last supper, he looked as well as I've ever seen him: clear-skinned, relaxed, with a little Greek sun still sitting on him.
And serious thanks for that Swede from North Dakota who would walk through the door any minute now, sniffing the air for supper smells, looking for a bowl of whole cashews.
THE THEATRE In the crowded yard, in the oily blue smoke Of an eel supper, the eel looks on.
In the crowded yard, in the oily blue smoke Of an eel supper, the eel looks on.
by Sharon Levy In the crowded yard, in the oily blue smokeOf an eel supper, the eel looks on.
From the supper table he looked around him and noted that there were pictures on the wall.
You could bring young children without worrying, or have a romantic (in an unscrubbed-up sort of way) supper for two looking out at the sea.
I had begun to be out most of the time, because the very next day after our supper I started looking for a job — and then I found one, working as a receptionist for a publisher of medical and scientific journals.
