Last night I went over to the Stockwell flat where I used to live. James and Jamie are moving out soon, so we thought we'd have an evening of beer and reminiscence. But then it was suggested we pay a visit to our Stockwell junk food haunt of many years, Millennium Fried Chicken, and treat ourselves to a family-sized bucket of unhealth.
All three of us leap upon the idea with the utmost relish (it's the only way to leap upon ideas involving large amounts of food) and, at around 8.30pm, we head over to MFC. Our man Raju is manning the decks; as I moved out of Stockwell in April, it's an emotional reunion for us both.
I tell Raju the news that James and Jamie are also moving away, to Tooting Bec. He quizzes Jamie, who confirms that there is no branch of Millennium or Morley's nearby. Our chicken man laughs: "Only 20 minutes from here, though." And indeed, the chickenburgers are so good here I can actually imagine my former flatmate traversing five tube stops to get his feed.
"There's an enormous Chicken Cottage, though," says Jamie. For some reason, this is a piece of banter too far for Raju and he visibly flinches.
"Please sir, no," he says seriously.
"It's almost a Chicken Mansion," I add, comedian. No one hears me. Raju turns back to the task in hand; we gather together the £17 needed to pay for this epic meal.
Anyway, with heavy hearts and a heavy bag, it's time for one last "vannakam", then we're off to the flat. Extraordinarily, between us, we eat four portions of chips, five large pieces of chicken, 11 chicken wings and three chickenburgers.
Afterwards I actually have a sensation of being physically clogged. "I feel like I'm more chicken than human now," I groan.
"I never thought this could happen," adds Jamie. "But I have a chicken headache."
The five levels of chicken shop recognition
The ill fated Tamil lessons
Meeting Shiva, the destroyer of chicken