Carvery

What better on a Sunday than to abandon all idea of cooking, and going to a carvery for a slap-up roast dinner washed down with a few pints of ale.

The rule is that the plate must be piled high with food (a la The Three Bears in the Beano), but every scrap must be eaten. It must have been the beer, but there wasn't quite enough room, and I had to wait for it all to settle before tackling the steamed pud. This was followed by a squiffy blip in the car-park (if you'll pardon the expression)

More of Shy's diet tips later.