I decided to cook a lamb. Jamie Oliver convinced me. All those books with the pretty succulent meat pictures. All that geezer, easy peasy, in a jiffy, Jool’s favourite got me fired up and I forgot for a second who I was.

Instead I thought, hell yeah, I’m going to roast me some lamb.

I bashed up some herbs, well truth be told I got Lula to bash the herbs, I had this vision of her and I in some sort of Nigella Lawson frosted mother/child fantasy. Anyway I slapped some kind of half-arsed marinade on the lamb’s arse and then left it out whilst the oven warmed up. Forgot about it. Remembered it about half  an hour before dinner time. Went to put it in oven for its allotted precooking time. Forgot about it. Went back – found it smoldering. Turned the heat down. Put it back for an hour. Forgot about it. Called John to sort out the potatoes because by then I was starting to realize co-ordinating the cooking of meat and vegetables was far, far, far beyond my abilities. Was beyond anything Jamie Oliver has ever had to confront in truculent school dinner ladies or e-number guzzling children and their mars bar feeding mothers.

Forgot about it again. Came back to find John and various family members trying to rescue meat and vegetables,  thetable laid, plates warming. Thing is no one had thought to come and get me to remind me that the dinner I’d said I would cook was nearly done. They’d just decided en masse and without a word to get on without me or I guess they figured they’d be going to bed hungry.

So yeah, that’s it I suppose. That’s my last ever effort at cooking. The recipe books I pulled down from the loft and put in my 500litre suitcase are back in the loft.

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