Walking through the city is a nightmare. The feeling only gets worse as the clock ticks closer to lunchtime. Too many times I will find myself trapped amongst the tall buildings, which hem in the small space we call our city like a variable fortress, stomach growling, wondering if I can possible find something to eat with the scant amount of coinage that I always keep in my pockets. I try to think about the places where I can get a good, healthy meal.

Vietnamese soup? Too expensive. Japanese Curry? Eaten far too much of that in recent weeks. MYO? Why would I want to pay for the privilege of making my own sandwiches, when I can do that at home?

Creeping up on me is a feeling I know all too well. Stuck, tired, hungry, a small whisper of a voice starts to sing the praises of a lunchtime meal that I thought I had left far behind me.

But that does not stop the voice. It talks of crispy chicken skin that masks the fleshy, tasty, yet oil dripping meat, of burgers that go down so well that you happily accept the immediate stomach-sick sensation and of big, golden chips that blur the distinction between real potatoes and potatoe deb.

The next few moments are critical. If I do not hold onto my reason and common sense, I can find myself wandering in a delirium ending up in front of a counter manned by a pimply faced 12 year old.