For a while, it seemed as if the only words my beloved would ever say again were ‘chicken Kievs’.
Two hours of operating a strimmer to clear the undergrowth from the electric fencing around my field had left the builder boyfriend either deaf or so hungry he could only think about his favourite meal.
Every question I asked elicited the same two words, until I thought the best thing was to get him home and feed him chicken Kievs. So I hurried to the One Stop and swept every pack they had off the shelves.
He sat down at the table looking peculiar and ate his way through four breaded chicken breasts laced with garlic butter, one after the other. Then he looked up and started to converse normally.
I regard myself as fortunate that whatever goes wrong with my other half I can usually put him right by serving him a cheap convenience meal.
A few days later, however, there weren’t enough chicken Kievs in the world…
He was driving down Esher High Street on his way to pick me up when out of nowhere a police car pulled out of the traffic queue on the opposite side of the road and sped down the road on the wrong side, forcing the brand new Range Rover in front of him to slam on its brakes, and he shot straight into the back of it.
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