Mum has gone to the territory of the heathen barbarians, that being Scotland. This leaves me to do the cooking and the kitchen is spotless; I like to have a spotless kitchen, no, I’m not going to come and clean yours. So I have a spotless kitchen and a bowl of chicken marinating away in various spices and lemon juice which will become this.  The same thing happens every day when mum is away: at some point dad is all, “I don’t know what we are going to do for dinner, mate” in this tone which suggests that we may full on starve to death or something, dad being a drama queen. At this juncture I often silently point to something marinating away and head back upstairs.


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