Clutching my phone and hyperventilating, I call John. ‘Help,’ I whisper under my breath, ‘I need help.’ ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘There’s too much gravy.’ ‘OK. What do you mean?’ I take a step back, banging into a trolley, and take in the full, eye-blistering, mind melting array of gravy options. I’m powerless, my brain pulling …

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It’s trick or treat time. Being British I’m faintly disturbed by this tradition; squirmish about the concept of fancy dress (the effort involved seems commensurate with axing the trees to light your own funeral pyre), cynical of the commercialization of yet another pagan / christian ceremony and also mightily stressed out by the following email, …

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