My fridge is full of good intentions. I am such an optimist about myself when I shop: I am rich and bounteous and eat acres of vegetables, and I cook something proper from a book every night of the week. I walk through the supermarket convinced that this time will be the time I live up to my trolley, and it never is, and the fridge is where all those good intentions go to die, where they stay until I fish their grim corpses out of the bottom of the vegetable drawer.
