He knew he didn’t look well with his pale face and sunken cheeks. Yet there was a glint of mischief as he clutched onto the paper bag, safe guarding its contents. A Cornish pasty that was a rarity these days, and he planned to enjoy it with a cold can of beer, followed by a doze in his old overstuffed armchair. He was going to eat this as nature intended; out of the packet with dirty hands and supping on his beer. He already had the can cooling in the fridge, hidden amongst the carrots and last Christmas’ forgotten sprouts.