All the food is eaten. The fridge is respectably stocked with milk, juice, butter, some cold cuts for hunger twinges, and a couple of tubs of yoghurt. There is some salad in the crispy and a chilly bottle of white on the rack.
Honestly, it was a worry, roaring out into the room every time the door was opened, full of threatening notes about what must be eaten when. Mysterious packages of feet and necks, giblets (whatever they are specifically) and livers waiting to be rendered into cooking bases. All gone. All devoured, quaffed, munched, slurped.
I'm dining out for at least a month.
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