It’s Thursday afternoon and I’ve come home from work with a termination letter in my hand. I’m at the front door when my wife Meira says ‘The fridge is dead.’ Meira is wearing a kitchen apron and has tongs in one hand and a spatula in the other. The house smells like cheap hot dogs and fried onions. 

‘I’m cooking all the meat from the freezer.’ She says this as though we keep a lot of frozen meat. The last time I put my face in the freezer I saw half a kilo of beef mince, four chicken breasts and a bag of mixed corn and peas.