Kevin Page: And that's about the thigh of it

Kevin Page has been deprived of his roast chicken this week.

I'm writing this on a Sunday night just after I've finished my tea.

And I'm not happy.

The reason for this departure from my usual content, belly-rubbing self is an argument that has left me less than satisfied.

OK, it's not an issue that would make Donald Trump blame the media (mind you ... ) or cause chaos in the world financial markets but its important to me. You see, I have been deprived of my usual bit of sumptuous roast chicken.

Let me explain.

Most Sunday nights Mrs P works some special magic in the kitchen. The result is a culinary experience to send the tastebuds into a Mexican Wave that keeps going round and round the stadium.

I have no idea what she does to the chicken but whatever it is it responds magnificently, as if it's just had a nice relaxing massage and is now sitting by the pool in a good mood, with a perfect cocktail, watching the football. Bliss. I'm sure you get the picture.

Anyway, I look forward to Mrs P's chicken. Particularly the thigh.

So this Sunday when I was informed I couldn't have the thigh I was somewhat downcast.

The Boomerang Child was visiting and, presumably because there is no nice food where she lives, it was decided she would be getting the thigh.

Now normally I would engage in some mock affrontery before eventually relinquishing the thigh, warm in the knowledge my girl was getting fed and Mrs P would reward my noble gesture with, er, cuddles, later.

But this week was different. I had spent much of the previous few days chained to the oars as the editor, stripped to the waist, walked up and down between us poor journalists threatening the lash to any that weren't pulling their weight.

I'm joking of course - the editor doesn't take his shirt off during the week.

But you get what I mean. It had been a tough week.

Kevin Page

But you get what I mean. It had been a tough week. One thing after another but I'd made it through and no, all I wanted on Sunday night was Mrs P's chicken thigh.

"The Boomerang Child (not her real name) is a guest," said Mrs P as I voiced displeasure at the chicken decision. "She's not been well and there's been issues at her work. She's had a very tough week".

"So have I," I whimpered. "And I had to mow the lawns today as well, before I went to golf. And I played terrible."

I knew as soon as the words left my mouth I wouldn't be getting my preferred portion. Or any sympathy. Once the Lioness feels the wellbeing of her brood is under threat, her hackles rise and she goes for it.

Suffice to say for the next 20 minutes I feebly attempted to sound like a worthy cause as the volcano continued to erupt, occasionally spewing out words like "selfish" and "unreasonable".

Luckily the ringing phone stemmed the flow. And I tried not to smile (honest) at the news The Boomerang Child would not now be visiting having received a better offer of food elsewhere that did not necessitate a long drive to us.

Outwardly I feel I did a reasonably good job of stifling the said smile - while inside my tastebuds were on their second Mexican Wave already with no thought of stopping till the tasty chicken thigh was well and truly dispatched and heading down the tube marked "Exit".

But when I eagerly sat down at the table there was a hitch. Spuds, a selection of veg, gravy ... But no chicken.

I looked to Mrs P for the answer. "I don't know what you are looking at me like that for," she said. "You were arguing about not getting the thigh for so long you distracted me. I forgot to turn it and it's burnt to a crisp".