The takeaway dinner sat there in plain brown bags, yet the air around it was already so aromatic that Sarah could just bite it. She could feel her inner joy smiling, that was dinner, that was tomorrow's breakfast.... and if she really stretched it... maybe it was lunch too.
The takeaway dinner had a way of perfuming the air, not as some bottled fragrance would, yet in a similar way that flowers give of their fragrance to the breeze.
The takeaway dinner sat there as if it had been beamed in from outer space. The kitchen, you see, was spotless, rather than the usual tell-tale food-preparation mess.
Mama said she was never sure if it was the flavour of the takeaway dinner she preferred, or simply that the lack of cooking and washing up made it so much tastier than other meals.
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