it’s 11.52 and I’ve long ago eaten my lunch of cheese and lettuce sandwiches. I could have added slices of tomato or cucumber, but then the bread gets soggy and wet bread is like cold jeans in the morning. sandwiches are a family heirloom passed down from my mother who always made them, with odd fillings too, like baked beans or lasagne. there aren’t as many sandwich eaters now; we’re all grown up with our credit cards and mortgages and lunches with rocket salad on the side. at university I bought nachos from the cafeteria once a week, served by Polynesian women who ladled mince and hot cheese sauce like a syrup over corn chips in a polystyrene bowl: a meal that sticks in the memory —and now I'm tempted by hot food from the pie warmer: the chips, the sausage rolls, the potato tops, the kranskies and deep-fried sushi. because if you’re going to buy lunch it should be hot and life can’t be all sandwiches in Tupperware containers.