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He fulfilled the task admirably, coming back with a lovely yellow, corn-fed, happy chicken that had lived its days merrily pecking in the dirt and probably having massages and manicures for all I know. The only problem was that he'd bought a chicken for six and I'd forgotten to mention that we were 11.
So I went out to the local supermarket (Haldanes. They're not paying me either, but given there's only one of them, they deserve the advertising) and bought another one. There wasn't any option: it was chicken or chicken. I got chicken.
Now, I know B had instinctively bought the super, friendly, happy, chicken, but then that's because that's the sort of thing we can do. We are lucky enough to have sufficient disposable income to be able to pay just shy of £10 for a chicken because we are also woolly liberal enough to worry about whether our chicken has had a nice life before it gets decapitated and stuck in a hot oven with an onion up its bum. I appreciate that there are lots of people who don't have the luxury of that choice and to be honest, I think I would have said the difference came more in how you felt about what you were eating than in what you were actually putting in your mouth.
It turns out I was wrong.
Here are the nutritional values of those two chickens:
Look at the calories. And the fat content. And give yourselves no prizes for working out which one is which.
