‘Would you know I’ve had a drama?’ she asked anxiously, coming to kiss me.

‘Not remotely,’ I assured her, removing her glasses, which were filthy. ‘But you might do better by cleaning these.’ I wiped them for her. ‘Mum, they’re sunglasses.’

‘Yes, because everything is just so bright these days, isn’t it?’

‘Well, not inside, surely. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. I hear the Frobishers are coming?’

‘Yes, it should have been the Pattersons as well, but Reggie’s got a gippy tummy so they’re coming tomorrow instead, with the De Courcys. Better change this frock.’

‘Right. Do you have guests every day?’

‘No, no, just a bit of a flurry at the moment. We’ve been rather lax at entertaining. And only at lunchtime.’

‘Although we go out a fair bit,’ reflected my father. ‘But not on a Wednesday. As you know, your mother takes to her bed.’

‘I’m not surprised. I’d be on my knees. Can you cope?’ I called after her as she mounted the stairs to change.

‘Of course I can cope. I’ve coped for eighty-four years. We’re not entirely past it, you know!’

And off she went. I made my way through the sitting room and beyond to the blackened kitchen: surveyed it in dismay.

‘Why aren’t you using the Aga?’ I asked, blinking in surprise at some new, tiny electric appliance in the corner, the door hanging open.

‘Your mother’s taken against it. Says it’s too hot in the summer. Plus, it’s been on the blink a bit, recently.’

I laid my hand on it. ‘Well, it’s gone out, Dad. It’s stone cold.’

‘That’s it!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Hence the new one.’

‘Not just a case of re-lighting it?’

‘Lord, no. Nothing as simple as that.’

I made a mental note to ring the Aga man in the morning and glanced in the new oven at some black blobs on a blackened baking tray. ‘What are these?’

‘Stuffed tomatoes.’ He grinned. ‘Thoroughly stuffed, actually. Drink, darling?’

‘Um, in a mo.’ I was peering in the fridge. ‘So … what’s the main course?’

‘I believe it was a large pork pie from Waitrose with all the filling removed, re-stuffed with pigeon, tomatoes, green peppers and anchovies.’

‘And where is that?’ I glanced around, my mother’s eclectic meal plan coming as no surprise.

‘In the bin.’

‘Burnt?’

‘Tiny bit. We haven’t quite got the hang of the cooker.’

‘So what’s on the menu now?’

‘Oh, the usual default position,’ he said brightly. ‘Surf ‘n’ Turf.’

‘Fish fingers wrapped in bacon?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Shall I rustle it up?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’ He turned. My mother had reappeared, still quite dishevelled, but in a clean floral dress. ‘Darling, you look lovely! Give us a twirl.’