I appear to be well today. By that, I mean I have no symptoms of coronairus.
I do however, have an extremely delicate stomach.
Picture if you will, a moderately competent amateur chef, moi to be precise. Picture also a pack of your finest chicken thighs being made ready for the oven for last nights repast. A delicate sprinkling of salt, pepper and, because I really like it, a goodly smattering of paprika to help the skin crisp up. They come out of the oven smelling deliciously chicken-y, surrounded by a mouth watering jus of their own making.
I am unable to contain myself, and I tear into the largest one, barely taking time to breathe, as I stuff it into my face because there is nobody here to see the hideous fall in table manner standards that quarantine has caused.
I’m on the last mouthful and heading for the next thigh when I become aware of a pain in my mouth. Sort of a smouldering. Then a burning. Then an almighty conflagration as the interior of my mouth screams for mercy. I run to the tap and douse my whole head, and oral cavity, in cold water.
Do not use chilli powder instead of Paprika.
Sarah is off the toilet. As you were.
Spoke too soon.