Rochdale. Three sons, one kitchen, endless negotiation, and the negotiation has got a new item on the agenda.
Since about November the cooking has been the hardest part of this for me, and it is nothing to do with wanting to eat it. It is the smell. Frying anything is the worst — onions, bacon, anything in a pan with fat in it — and by the time I have got a proper tea on the table for three teenage boys I am standing at the back door with my head out in the cold and I have no interest in sitting down with them.
Which is the bit that has upset me, if I am honest. We eat together. That is the one thing this family has kept through a divorce, two house moves and my eldest’s GCSE year. And for the last two months I have been plating theirs up and then finding a reason to be doing something else.
My middle one asked me on Sunday if I was all right, in that carefully casual way they do it, and I said I was fine, and then I lay awake thinking about what he has actually been watching for eight weeks.
So the practical question is about smells and cooking. But the real question is what I say to a fifteen-year-old who has noticed his mother has stopped eating with him.
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