My first love was not Scott Tracy of Thunderbirds. He was second. My first love was Smith's Crisps. I am old enough to remember when crisps had no flavour and they came with a little salt bag that you emptied in. I then augmented this with vinegar, which lay in a cheek-puckering pond at the bottom of the bag, and the last crisps would be soggy and tart. Quite why a small child was allowed to pour vinegar into a bag of crisps and eat them is a mystery. I was the fifth child and my mum was probably exhausted. She did say it would dry my blood up; a threat which, fortunately, turned out not to be true.
This love affair with potatoes and potato products has been the enduring joy of my life. Nothing says comfort like a roast potato, crisp and fatty on the outside, fondant on the inside. Forget the chicken. There is nothing like a good bag of chips for restoring a sense of rightness with the world. And there is nothing like a damn good bag of crisps to fill the interstices of the day. Christ, I've come over all Nigel Slater.
I'm fairly certain the health risks of salty, fatty, carbohydraty foods are...well dead boring to read about, frankly. The security and comfort offered by a lifelong potato habit outweighs any risks and, thankfully, potatoes are still legal and can be consumed indoors or out.
One strange thing - I will happily share my food, as long as it not potato-based. Do not ever ask for a chip or a crisp. Do not attempt to steal my roast potatoes. Somewhere is a bag with heads in it, of people who tried that. I can only think in a previous life I lived through a potato famine.