Laura Craik on the lure (and convenience) of takeaways

While the retail sector struggles, one stalwart of British life remains blissfully unaffected by current economic woes. Sales of takeaways have increased by a quarter, with the average household spending £38 a month, a sum that would only buy you a chicken jalfrezi, a pilau rice, two poppadums and a naan in London. These are the things that keep me awake at night. That and indigestion. 

Whenever people talk disparagingly about Deliveroo, it’s always through the prism of the millennial, as though they alone are the feckless slatterns ordering avo-based takeouts because they can’t be bothered to de-stone their own. Nah. The worst offenders are mums (myself included). Busy? Drunk? Can’t be arsed to cook? Never mind: within 15-25 minutes, you and your rickets-ridden kids can be chowing down on Wagamama, like Ocado was never invented. Which you wish it hadn’t been, for while it might negate the torture of going to the supermarket, it doesn’t negate the torpor of unpacking everything and putting it all in the fridge. Someone needs to launch Unpackeroo.

And also Deliveroo Anonymous, for the allure of takeout food can be addictive. I know women who let each of their three kids order from different restaurants, women who order lone £12 milkshakes as hangover cures and women who order wine because the corner shop is a 10-minute walk away. My own low point was ordering a kebab, although my usual go-to is Itsu, which once delivered within eight minutes, less than the time it would take to go downstairs and cook some noodles, if you were a slow walker and had a lot of stairs.

Haters gonna hate, but that spending on takeaways is predicted to hit £15 billion by 2023 is less an indicator of female laziness than a damning indictment of how impossible it is to have a full-time job and be a domestic goddess. Besides, domestic goddessing isn’t something I aspire to. Having it all? Only if the dinner comes by bike. 

Alexa be gone 

Naming your baby has always been a fraught affair. Will a Z-list celebrity copy you, blighting your ‘original’ choice for all eternity? Or perhaps it will be made naff by a ubiquitous, frequently malfunctioning bit of tech? Not even the Peter Pan collared coolness of Ms Chung can mitigate against the ruination of Alexa, a name which, thanks to Amazon, is now half as popular as it was in 2017, according to the Office for National Statistics’ annual list of popular baby names.

In 2018, only 118 parents were willing to condemn their daughters to a life of ‘Alexa, will you ever understand a word I say?’ jokes. Meanwhile, Olivia still reigns supreme for girls, and Oliver for boys. Boris? Not even in the top 100.  

Feeling euphoric

I was about to write that I’m late to the party on Euphoria, HBO’s divisive Drake-produced, Zendaya-starring drama about addiction, violence and gender identity. But, really, am I? The first episode only aired on 6 August, but such is our voracious appetite for binge-watching that these days, being ‘late to the party’ means not having watched an entire season of something 24 hours after it first dropped.

Anyway. Euphoria is excellent for many reasons, but at the risk of sounding trivial, the fashion is ace; a masterclass in Gen Z style thanks to the keen eye of the show’s stylist, Heidi Bivens.