Bernie stared at the oil slick oozing across his plate. Anaemic chips and dried out chicken breast that looked like it should be hanging in a bird cage slid around in the greasy pool.
He looked up at his once-beautiful wife of 37 years, who now ate with her mouth open and kept her legs closed, and watched as she washed the inedible meal down with yet another bottle of cheap red wine.
He shifted his gaze across to his 26 year old daughter, who had systematically bled him dry and driven him to three heart attacks with her penchant for expensive shoes and cheap men.
Bernie looked back down at the grease-filled plate. He impaled three chips on his fork, swirled them around in the congealed oil and shovelled them into his mouth. With a bit of luck, the next heart attack would finish him off.