I’m cooking chops for the Teen and I for supper. I’ve no idea how long they have been cooking or indeed if they are done, however brown they may look now. I stride purposely over to the fridge and open the door. I stand there for some moments, noticing some rather tasty looking sausages that I had forgotten were there. Still staring, I scan at the contents and desperately try to remember what I am doing there. A ‘pinger’ goes off and at last I realise. I am not s’posed to be in the fridge, I’m s’posed to be taking the bubble and squeak ’heat-ups’ out of the microwave that sits staring at me unhelpfully, on top of the fridge.
Did I say anything about senile dementia.
No, I thought not.
