home for six months now, and there was no going back to shop-bought.
Nor was there any going back to shop-bought yogurt, since Laura bought a little yogurt-making machine online. She’d had three glasses of wine the night of that purchase, but it had been a welljudged decision.
In fact, when it came to drunken online activity, Laura was far more sensible about her foodie choices than her choices of clothes or dates. She’d had some disaster in both of those departments, but the yogurt maker, with its little glass pots, one for each day of the week, hadn’t caused her a second’s regret.
Nor had the slow cooker. Or the nut-milk bags. Or the cold-press juicer. Not even the spiralizer, which she’d use more often if the washing of it was easier.
Laura’s friend Suzanne texted to ask what she was up to this Friday night. Suzanne was out with the gang from work. If Laura knew Suzanne, then she was having chicken wings and Prosecco and getting off with her boss.
If Suzanne knew what Laura was about to purchase, she’d laugh herself sick. Suzanne said that Laura was about two steps away from “knitting her own spinster shoes”. Laura couldn’t mention the dehydrator or the soggy nuts.
“Glass of wine. Telly. Trawling online,” Laura texted back to Suzanne.
“Ah, swiping right or left?” Suzanne replied.
“You guessed it,” Laura replied, before snapping up her dehydrator in a decisive and painless single click.