‘Actually, Dad, she’s just trying to keep you independent for as long as possible. Entirely up to you.’

‘She wanted to stick her finger up my arse last time I saw her.’

‘That’ll be your prostate. Did you let her?’

‘Certainly not!’ This was to be another mantra to add to my list, but I let this one go, thinking that, actually, his prostate was the least of my worries. Or at any rate one to be tackled another day.

I went back into town to shop after I’d dropped Dad at home. Then I returned to fill the fridge and the larder, which were horribly bare. Particularly when I’d thrown out everything beyond its sell by date.

‘Nothing wrong with that!’ they kept shrieking, hovering behind me as I filled a black sack.

‘Cream from last month,’ I told them, chucking in a blue-rimmed pot. ‘Eggs from March.’

‘Eggs keep forever,’ my mother insisted.

‘Sardines from 2001.’ I was in the larder now.

‘Ah, now they really will be fine,’ said my father, lunging for them. ‘Tinned stuff lasts years.’ I wrestled them back, glaring at him. He looked taken aback. ‘We’ve managed perfectly well on our own, you know. And a little bit of mould never hurt anyone.’

‘Does one the world of good, actually,’ agreed my mother. ‘It’s full of penicillin.’ It occurred to me that apart from last night’s little hiccup over the cottage, they’d definitely closed ranks and were presenting a united front. There’d been very little sniping, which was a good thing. Even if their barbs were aimed at me now.

My mother sulked for a bit in the scullery as I cleaned the fridge completely, but then she couldn’t help creeping back as I refilled it.

‘Ooh, what’s that?’ she said, fingering some greenery.

‘Kale.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Flaxseeds. You sprinkle them on muesli.’

‘Oh, we don’t do muesli.’

‘Mum, there’s absolutely no nutrition in those stale Frosties I threw away. Just give it a go, eh? Or an egg? A fresh one, preferably.’

‘And we like white bread,’ she complained, as I filled the bread bin.

‘Which is why I’ve bought both, and put a few loaves in the freezer so you can toast it. And I’ve got the jams you like, too.’

‘You threw ours away.’

‘They were thick with mould. And trust me, if Helena was here, it’d be quinoa, apple cider vinegar and Himalayan pink sea salt crystals all the way, so count yourself lucky. Now. Lunch.’

‘A burger,’ said my father stubbornly, going to the freezer. ‘That’s what I always have, unless you’ve thrown those away too. You get ten for a pound in the village shop. Ah, there they are, and your mother likes a chocolate cupcake with marmalade on top.’

‘Did you get some?’ she asked suspiciously, peering in my bag.

‘I did.’