A tin of tuna. A jar of mayo. Some sweetcorn from another tin. Bread, butter, five minutes. This is not a recipe that needs an introduction, and it knows it.

But I'll say this: the sweetcorn matters more than you think. Without it, you have tuna mayo, which is fine, perfectly decent, nobody would send it back. With it, you have something that works on another level entirely. Each kernel pops between your teeth, sweet and firm against the soft, savoury tuna, and it turns what could be monotonous into something you actually want to keep eating. It's a textural trick, and it's the reason this version became the standard in sandwich shops and school lunchboxes across the country.

I make this when the fridge is bare and the cupboard isn't. A Wednesday evening when you've come in late and there's nothing planned. The tin is already in the cupboard. The bread is on the side. We're only making dinner. Or lunch. Or something to wrap in paper and eat on a bench if the weather's holding. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, and this one barely needs more than a nod.

I wrote it down in the notebook once, though I'm not sure why. "Tuna. Sweetcorn. Good mayo. Ate it over the sink." That's the whole entry. It didn't need more.