I know I should care deeply what intellectual powerhouses Margolis and Chirac think, but somehow...
So, what's for supper?
Well it's not going to be snails or diseased duck liver.
You would halve to throw off the three blankets, various magazines, brush off chip and cookie crumbs, a pistol clean kit, then swing your feet on to the floor off the couch, push away the No. 10 can of butts and ashes, make way through the newspaper piles....and go to the kitchen. That would be the room with the plumbing tools piled on the hot plate/oven thingy.