If I'm honest I'm reaching slightly at calling him "friend" as he was must too embroiled in frantic attempts to reach scraps at the bottom of his Walker's crisps packet to talk freely. -Probably a lucky break for me as this would have raised burning issues such as, "how do I uninvite him for butties and squash at my house" and "I hope that smell doesn't latch onto my pants".
Anyway I think I captured his post-Walker's blues. "The Potato Descent". There's probably more layers I should add for definition and make it look good, but seeing as I've already promised abject failures (and much like my last landlord with his half-finished hairplugs); I'd only be cheating myself.
