Isolation, day two: Don't like the food? Bad luck

Last night I was entranced by the trickling traffic winding around the monotone bends of Melbourne’s southern banks, proving fairly hypnotic as the seconds slipped into minutes, while peeping out the blinds an estimated 80 m from ground level.

That was, until, a fist rapped on the door.

It was the gesture pointing to the first proper dinner of my stay, and it wasn’t all bad – butter chicken.

It had all the trappings of a nourishing serving - or as close as one can be when presented in Tupperware - and it triggered a sense of déjà vu almost instantly.

One of my first meals in what I shall furthermore be referring to as ISO I - my current stage being ISO II (I don’t intend for this to be a trilogy) – was a similar Indian delicacy, and I can vividly recall savouring every bite of the homemade naan crisped to completion on the barbecue.

Although a valiant attempt, last night's doughy disaster didn’t hold a candle to Dad’s, and that notion led me to reflect on those initial 14 nights of feasting.

Now, the dinner situation at the Nash household was quite the sight to behold in ISO I.

As the sun disappeared beyond the horizon within its pendulous arc, it was a signal to layer up and depart for dinner.

Approaching the house with caution, I’d sidle up alongside the window and wait like a leper for a compassionate family member to create an aperture for conversation and food transmission.

Seeing as I didn’t get the chance to attend a middle-class American public school, this was my one opportunity to experience cafeteria style dining, and you can guarantee I exploited it.

Did I profit off the sympathy of the corona-induced house ban? You bet.

Was there any cap-in-hand begging or utterings of, ‘please sir, can I have some more?’

No dice.

I ate like a king then slunk off into the night without needing to scrub or scour pans and plates – talk about bliss.

This is no longer the case.

I’m sensing now in ISO II if you don’t care for the meal dropped on your doorstep, options include biting the bullet, making like a millennial and ordering UberEats to ease the stomach's rumbling.

For the sole reason of saving cash (quite the irony, given I write from a room I’d never dream of affording on my own dollar) a decision was made to up my rations from an external source.

While some say satisfaction is the death of desire, I’ve considered it necessary to relent on cornflakes for snacking and have opted for an online supermarket delivery.

To compensate for the inevitable gorge of tooth-cracking treats inbound, I’ve devised a training plan to ensure I’ll be leaving out the door on my own accord, and not rolled off the premises like a modern day Violet Beauregarde.

This includes: 300 press-ups, 100 chair dips and a 15-minute core workout per day.

Let’s see how long it lasts.