Oh Giorgio, where did it all go wrong?

Another microwave dies, this one jiggered by a household determined to close the door with a slamming-shut-thegates-of-hell velocity. If I had a tenner for every time someone says “Mum, the microwave’s broken” I’d buy a new one. And then I’d buy Giorgio Locatelli. “Who?” says Youngest Child. “Giorgio Locatelli, a chef, lovely hair, lovely hands – I interviewed him once and...” I say. “Nobody cares,” she says. “He was caressing truffles and…” “The microwave’s broken,” they repeat. Followed by a silence. The “you’ll be going to the shop to buy a new one, heave it back, plug it in and then drive to the dump with the old one to dispose of it” is all silent.

So I wait them out, silently, seeing if someone else cracks first and replaces the microwave. Sure enough, it’s the Boyf who can’t cope. “Of course I learnt to cook in Italy you know,” he says, “that’s where I really mastered spaghetti carbonara,” as he shoves a ready meal in the new sparkly microwave he’s had to hunter/ gather from the supermarket. I guess we’ll have to wait to enjoy that home-made spaghetti carbonara. Maybe when this new microwave dies. Or I can afford to buy Giorgio Locatelli. Next day it starts again. “The washing machine’s broken.” “Oh,” I say, moving away. “But what am I going to do? I need to do some washing,” says one of them. “Yes, we all do.” “No, you don’t understand. I need to do some washing,” he repeats. “Yes, we all do,” I say. “No, I actually NEED some of these things.”

“OK, you’re being selfish.” He’s starting to rattle my knitting.

“No, I am thinking about everyone else too,” he says. “Of course they need their washing as well. But I actually need my washing done. Now. It’s really important!”

This is my cue to go and sit in the bathroom for a bit. Let’s see who cracks first. Me, I can sit here all day vaping. But what’s that? Someone’s tapping on the door.

“Hello. Did you know the dishwasher’s not working either?” n