"What's
in this?" I asked.
"Oh,
just some chicken, lemon, stock, herbs, and some cream I found in the
fridge."
Dad and I
exchanged horrified glances.
"What?"
mum asked.
Little did
she know that but an hour earlier, I had been asking of my father, "Is
this cream off?" - and he who would manfully eat even the mouldiest of
cheeses and the most out-of-date of yogurts, gave it a sniff and a cautious dip
of the finger, through the solidified layer and past the fuzzy mouldy rim, and
declared it unfit for human consumption. Even
dad wouldn't eat it. (Ok, so it was technically a month out of date and had
been open since the date of purchase, but I couldn't bear to throw it out;
cream isn't cheap, you know, and the pot was nearly full.) We simply didn't dare
tell mum and preferred to let her enjoy her dinner instead. Plus, I don't think
it was the cream that smelt funny anyway; I thought it was the thyme and
tactically informed mum thus. Dad and I adopted a diversion strategy from any further
criticism of the dinner and suggested that we partake in wine with the meal,
and I produced a couple of bottles of rosé.
"Which
one, dad? You know all about wine."
Dad studied
the bottles and assertively made his choice.
"Why
that one? Is it from a particularly good region? Will this one complement the
chicken better?" we asked of his expertise.
"Nope,"
came his cheeky grin, "this one's a screw cap and we can get into it
faster!" Such a connoisseur.
Even alcohol
couldn't divert mum's attention from the strangely-flavoured food.
"In
hindsight," said she thoughtfully, "I wouldn't have put in the
thyme."
"No,
just the effort," was my quick-witted reply. I crack myself up.
The next
night, after a day ambling around Shaftesbury's famous Hovis Gold Hill and a
rather nice pub lunch during which we all three were doing one thing or another
on our mobile phones, we were ready for some post-dinner pub action. (Well, I
was only just recovering from the usually-unheard-of lunchtime half pint of
ale; I don't normally like to drink in the day, it makes me sleepy - but I was drowning my sorrows of having just learnt that my Easter holiday volunteering in Snowdon had been cancelled; so THEY
were ready for more booze, and I was struggling to keep up.) We sat in the pub
(thanks to mum fighting her way through the rugby-watching crowds to procure an
extra chair) and each found a newspaper to read. Dad ordered one of each of the
available ales, then sat hunched over with his hands cupping his ears as he
tried to mentally complete the chess challenge; mum was reading something so
high-brow she had to keep asking me the meanings of half the words; I was left
with the Salisbury Journal. After a while, I got a text inviting me to join a
few friends at another pub. Leave was granted and the parents and I reconvened
at home a couple of hours later.
I would like to inform that I had been very sensible and only had a J2O in the second pub; I cannot say the same for the prudence of my parents.
"Can
have some Weetabix?" slurred my father. I was just about to point out his inebriated
condition to my mother as he sloshed milk all over the kitchen table, when she
too entered on the hunt for cereal. At eleven o'clock at night. My parents with
the munchies, while I'm imbibing tea. As mum tucked into her second bowl of
Cornflakes, I decided now would be a good time to ask of them what kind of man
they could see me ending up with. They exchanged knowing
we've-clearly-just-been-discussing-this glances and my dad bravely answered,
"None."
"NONE?!"
I shrieked. "Am I really so hideous and unbearable that you can't see me
ending up with a suitable man ever again?!"
I like to
think that it was just the alcohol that slowed my parents' efforts to counter
my proposal...then they eventually explained that I am apparently now so very
independent and unable to bear the company of others for too long, am so picky,
can't stand men who are either too keen or not keen enough, and have been
working jolly hard on my man-hunting over the past year, that they have decided
I'm now unmarriable. And that if I ever were to find someone I deemed worthy,
it would be within the next couple of years; after that, I would apparently
become so comfortable with spinsterhood that I'd shun the notion of partnership
for good.
"Good
job you've got your grandchild then, if that's to be my destiny!"
Cue a rather
apposite text from the ex-bf agreeing wholeheartedly with me on my proposed theory
of child-rearing involving no phones, newspapers or bagpipes at the dinner
table.
"Looks
like he'll have to do then, won't he?"
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