Trapped.

Brisket, rolled, tied, coated and sealed. (which in other circumstances could be a recipe for a good night in)

Slow cooked with a bottle of what's apparently a nice Cabernet Sauvignon (apologies to those who like to drink the stuff, I prefer to cook with it) shallots, generous seasoning and plenty of time. I can smell the wine and shallots warming up in the oven now, it promises good things.
Once it's cooked in a few hours time, I'll fry off some more shallots and attempt to reduce some of the stock to make a sauce/gravy.
Served with buttery mashed potato, green beans if I get time to go and buy them and if I can find some, large bulbs of garlic, roasted so the gooey innards squidge (squidge, lovely word) out as a paste under the fork to mix into the gravy or spread on a chunk of warm fresh bread. Fairly simple, non fussy food but (hopefully) delicious.

Being 'on call' limits what you can do, obviously I suppose. It means I can't drink which isn't really a problem given the frequency with which I drink now (I've got beer that's gone out of date on my booze shelf and three bottles of scotch that're still sealed, sacrilege!).
It does mean I can't stray too far though because it's almost guaranteed that if I go out I'll get called to something in the opposite direction. I feel trapped when it's my turn on the rota.

When I'm not on call if the weather looks as though it's anywhere near pleasant, I'll often grab a few things and head off somewhere, rarely with a plan, little to no notice or extra preparation. During the summer months the 'bus' is always loaded and ready to go at a moment's notice so I can wake up, shower, grab children if possible and within an hour be at a beach, in the middle of a country park or just somewhere else.

I have unplanned plans which involve kites and beaches for next weekend.