So last week, I come home from an engagement out on the town, and am welcomed by a quite intoxicating scent at my front door. Pork chops, I think. That smells like pork chops.
Eamon is quite mysterious. "No, it's not pork chops."
"Well, it smells like pork chops."
"No, it's not pork chops."
And so it goes, until eventually, he can conceal his pride and pleasure in his cooking no longer, and reveals how he has supped this evening. In the same way that one does not like to speak the name of demons for fear of invoking them, I shan't recount the details. Instead, I'll let this picture reveal the truth.
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