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One of the great things about moving house and the whole tedious packing process is that as the food stores dwindle there’s a justifiable excuse to order take out.

 

Sometimes It's Just Too Hard To Get Off The Sofa

The Princess has already packed her case!

We reached the ‘what’s left in the freezer’ stage last Friday. Fine if you like frozen fruit, party pies, some manky old Spaghetti Bolognese that I thought was worthy of freezing (maybe two years ago) and puff pastry.

 

But it was Friday night.

 

So NC and I broke a new record for laziness.

Sometimes it’s just too hard to get off the sofa.

 

Dysfunctionality House is situated a max of 50m from our closest restaurant but it never feels quite close enough, (particularly on a chilly night), to brave the wild weather and collect the take out.

 

And the really annoying part is that Dysfunctionality House is just that bit TOO close to warrant a delivery.

 

And it’s uber-hard to vacate the sofa after the Friday night ritual of Kettle chips, wine and straddling the gas heater for two hours.

 

So we tried to bribe Kurt first – which normally works – with the promise of some ghastly sugar drink or a pack of Baklava, which is his latest sugar weakness. But he was too immersed in Top Gear in Vietnam to take the bait and as the old man was out pretending to be a real man with associated middle-aged boy germs in the local pub, it fell upon NC and I to hunt and gather our own food.

 

Luckily, NC inherited my intelligence (prior to having children and becoming an alcoholic) and so she came up with THE BEST PLAN.

 

She figured that if we ordered take-out from somewhere in a neighbouring suburb, we could get delivery and wouldn’t have to ease our tired asses off the sofa at all.

 

So we wasted another critical half an hour of hunger as we tried to find a restaurant online with delivery times predicted sometime before the next fucking World Cup, ever conscious of the fact that we could have picked up pizzas in five minutes flat if one of us could just be bothered to walk 50m.

 

We considered all our options with an in-depth strategy meeting.

 

At one point we even considered sending the Princess down with her backpack and then we remembered that dogs aren’t allowed inside the restaurant and as we had opted for Thai, we were worried she might not come back at all.

 

Anyway, she’d already packed her backpack for the move.

 

Eventually, and after much soul-searching, I succumbed to the hike from here to eternity while my entitled teenager kept the sofa warm and prepped our next episode of ‘Weeds’.

 

We are hoping that our new abode, Dysfunctionality ‘Box’, which is at least 25m further from our local restaurants is just far enough away to justify delivery.

 

Sometimes it’s just too hard to get off the sofa.

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