I sat in the classroom, chatting to the two students there early. Something kept making itself known, advancing and retreating, a comforting foody smell.
'Is it just me,or is there a smell of dinner?' I asked the pretty noughties girlies. They laughed, sweetly, carefully, shook their heads and gave each other amused eyes.
No cooking classes on, then.
I pondered, sure I could smell it for real. Fried onions, savoury, the promise of something nice. Not deep fried greasy, more sauteed. Frenchly.
And then I realised. Me at the cooker, frying onions and garlic, for soup for the kids' dinner, before I rushed off to the class. It must be in the front of my hair; newly washed, shiny, light - and oniony.
I'm tasty, me.