Paula Evans / The removal of choice

We have a cook called Rob. I think we are each having our own love affair with Rob. He makes porridge in the morning, some kind of delicious soup and homemade bread for lunch and some magical smelling delight for supper – always with desert.

The strange bit about having a cook isn’t the luxury of actually having a cook, it is the luxury of not having to chose what to eat. I find I don’t have breakfast because I can’t face deciding what to have in the morning beyond a coffee. I spend far too long deciding what to have for lunch (Panini or a jacket potatoe), and spend too much time and money in supermarkets because I fancy lots of different things yet I get home and still feel like I don’t have anything to eat. If I go out to a restaurant I get plate envy and I always feel like I have made the wrong choice – which is OK if you are out with someone who lets you ‘share’.

Choice is always promoted as a good thing, but I am loving coming through the door of the lodge to a random smell and a plate of food where the only choice is to eat or not to eat.