There is something fishy going on in Dorset i.e. my Mum is not at all up to her usual standard of oppressive cleaning / food monitoring. Having just spent four days in close confinement with the Jif-happy one, I can report only one incident of Janet Riley style dictatorship (Me: Hmmm, what shall I have for lunch. Mum: something with plenty of protein. Me: (evil glint in eye) I shall have chips. With nothing.)
Under normal circumstances, my lackadaisical attitude to food groups / vitamins / cross contamination of butter/jam can end in threats / fines / exile or custodial sentences. And attempts to cook for senior members of family are watched at close proximity with hawk-like determination to ensure heating / stirring / chopping methods meet approved standards (as set by Mum in accordance with the Which Guide to Food Hygiene / Good Housekeeping Fascistic Cooking Manual). But managed to make pasta (admittedly with help of Loyd Grossman) without single interruption.
There are only two possible explanations.
- She is on drugs. Which is impossible. She thinks sherry should be reclassified as Class B along with junior Disprin and Herbal Nytol.
- She was so stirred by the sight of Dad in his 1970s swimming trunks attempting to surf that she has been overcome with endorphins / stunned into horrified silence.
Whichever. It is very irritating on an inspirational level. She had better get back to her usual banning self soon. I have a novel to write.