I once asked myself what I would have as my last meal on Earth.

“Sunday dinner,” I replied, quick as a flash. I like to respond promptly to any questions I pose .

“A mucky one,” I continued, glad of the company. “Traditional. No faffing. And plenty of it. With shitloads of gravy. Enough for the garden peas to bob about in. No refinement required.”

“Good choice, Faye,” I told myself. It was a relief that we were back on speaking terms. We’d had a bit of a falling out earlier in the day about how to pronounce ‘chipotle’.

We left it there. It was decided. Later in the year, I found a boyfriend, by pretending I wasn’t as crazy as I am. It was great to have someone new to argue with and torment.

One night, early in our relationship, before the rot set in, I asked him what he’d have as his fodder finale. I didn’t say ‘fodder finale’, of course, because I’d have sounded like a cunt. Alliteration isn’t always the answer.

“High-end sushi,” he announced, like he needed punching. I narrowed my eyes and turned away from his misguided soul in disgust.

Although I continue to despise him for that answer, a good two years after the event, he takes on the coveted role of my dining companion, here On The Gravy Trail.

As our tastes and views differ, and he’s less consumed by scorn, he’ll offer a more balanced view of Sunday dinners in South London and beyond.

To protect his identity, he’ll be known in the diaries as Mr Jus, but his real name is Charles (it would be). I did ask him to choose his own pseudonym, but he came up with ‘Colin’ or ‘The Beast’, and although Mr Jus is awful, it sounds less like a serial killer.


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