Hancock’s Half Hour 

I had my Covid jab on Wednesday. 

I haven’t reached the age dictated by Big Brother – but clearly there were enough blots on my medical copybook to bump me up the list. 

This one broke a few fingers playing cricket. That’ll do. Just as long as he doesn’t expect a badge or a lollipop when it’s done.’

Or maybe they took pity on my wife… 

Stalwart of the NHS. If he gets it we’ll lose her for a few weeks.’

Fair enough. Just as long as he doesn’t expect…’ 

Drive 40 miles or wait for the local centre to open? 

Carpe Diem. Seize the jab. I booked online. 

8:30 in the morning, obviously. No point wasting a day. 

I arrived at the vaccine centre. 8am. Our family has a long and proud tradition of getting there far too early. 

I’m 10th car in the queue, I texted to my wife. Man in orange suit has appeared. A train has gone past. 

Astonishingly she ignored me. Not even remotely interested in this local colour. 

I obediently followed a red mini to the socially distanced car park. Put my mask on. Waited for my glasses to steam up. I must have been told about 20 foolproof methods. “Glasses steamed up, mate? You need to tie a knot in ’em. The fastenings on your mask, not your glasses. And then smear ’em with Fairy Liquid.”

Fortunately the woman in front was wearing a red coat. Glowing through the fog…

And I’m done. I’m back in the car with a little blue card, a recipient of Astra-Zeneca batch AB0012. And with 8:52 written on the card. “Sit in your car until then, mate.” 

No, nobody else waits 15 minutes either…

I’m back home for ten. Feeling a bit tired, but otherwise fine. 

“You’ll feel awful tomorrow,” my wife – an AZ veteran – said encouragingly. “Like you’re getting a really bad ’flu. And then it’ll go. Just like that.” 

Pah. Us men are made of sterner stuff. By four o’clock I was right as ninepence. Fatigue? Fought it off. Shivering? Going hot and cold? Clearly those wee rascals knew better than to knock on my door…

It happened at 8:55. We were watching The Repair Shop. A restored, rejuvenated Fender guitar was being handed to a tearful owner. 

“If only we had something that’s battered, worn out and past its best,” I said. 

My wife opened her mouth. But whatever sarcastic barb it was, I didn’t hear it. 

I was shivering. Exactly like you start shivering when you’re getting ’flu. 

But this was different. The shivering was violent. Like nothing I’d ever felt before. Getting rapidly worse. “I’m going to bed,” I muttered. 

I was shaking so much I couldn’t put my passcode into my phone. My hands were jumping. I managed to grab two bath towels. My winter coat. Flung them all on the bed and climbed in. 

‘Google it,’ I thought. But I still couldn’t hit my passcode. Couldn’t get anywhere near it. 

Smiling Matt Hancock’s vaccine? I had a medieval sweating sickness. Maybe Martians had landed. One of them had winged me with his death ray. 

The shakes lasted for 30 minutes. And then I slept. Woke up, drank water, woke up, stumbled to the toilet. 

Spent every alternate hour the next day in bed. Couldn’t do anything. Out to lunch. Completely. 

And then it went. Like someone flicking a switch. 6:30 I went to bed for the night. 6:40 I got up again. 

So it looks like my wife was right.

Blimey, that’s odd: when I typed that last sentence auto-correct added ‘again.’ 

Looks like Word is out to lunch as well…

THE SCARS DON’T SHOW 

Michael Brady is willing to risk it all

His career, the woman he loves, even his life

For the man who nearly killed him…

The Scars Don’t Show’ is the first Michael Brady Short Read. Books you can read in an evening. It will be published in March: you can pre-order it here https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08WPM8WXS

The Shimmering Hexagon of Doom

What’s happening here, then? Have I splashed some water on my screen?

Does your phone do that?

You’re getting shaved and sending a text message at the same time. You splash some water on the screen. Hey presto! There’s a little prism of light. A rainbow. Richard Of York Got Bathed In Vinegar. Or is that showing my age? Poor old Rich could probably sue these days…

Wipe it with a towel and you’re back to normal.

Ah, you’ve cut yourself. Serves you right. Everyone knows you can’t get shaved and send a text message at the same time…

So there I am. Wednesday afternoon. Tapping away. And the bottom left hand corner of my screen is distorted…

Shimmering.

I can’t see it. Ah, I can if I move my head. But then my notebook starts shimmering.

Duh!

There must be some water on my glasses. God knows how but that’s the only possible explanation.

Odd though… They’ve never refracted light like this before.

Glasses off. Vigorous polish. Back on. Job done.

Or maybe not.

In fact… it’s getting bigger.

I close my eyes. There’s a very clear shape.

It’s a hexagon, with jagged edges. Except someone’s taken a bite out of the upper right side. Like the Apple logo. Exactly like that.

And the damn hexagon is still shimmering. Laptop screen, notebook, bookcase. Whatever I look at, it shimmers.

For some reason I get up walk into the kitchen. Toaster, kettle, Marge Simpson fridge magnet. Yep, all shimmering.

I finally work out what’s happening. It’s a migraine. Ocular migraine, according to Mr Google and the one half of the screen I can see. Apparently the nerve endings in my visual cortex have got themselves excited.

On a wet Wednesday afternoon in lockdown? I wish they’d share it with me…

‘Where’s Dad?’ I’d ask as a teenager.

‘He’s in bed. He’s got a migraine.’

But I was lucky, the gene skipped a generation. It landed fairly and squarely on my youngest son (sorry, Alex) but it missed me. Cue guilt trip…

Or maybe Alex caught it from his mum. Every so often my beloved takes to her bed, complaining about ‘black holes’ in her vision – and I sympathise without really knowing what I’m sympathising with.

Or I did. Now I know. Google tells me the Shimmering Hexagon of Doom will hang around for half an hour. Then it clocks off and its mate the headache comes on duty.

That’s what happened. In a rare flash of common sense I was in bed by the time they swapped shifts.

24 hours later I was back. Still feeling out to lunch but well enough to tiptoe back online. I exchanged symptoms with some virtual pals.

Flashing lights and violent headaches, one wrote.

Like having your own personal fireworks display

What pins and needles would look like if you could see them

Looks like I got off lightly…

‘Too much time spent staring at a laptop’ was the most common diagnosis. ‘Stress’ ranked highly.

Mine were definitely caused by stress, my friend Rosaline wrote. But I divorced my husband and that got rid of them.

According to Gina, I think of the shape I see as a Patronus. You know, like in Harry Potter.

Blimey, there’s a breakthrough in medical science. The shape you see when you’re having a migraine is your very own Patronus. Harry Potter’s Patronus is a stag. Dumbledore’s is a phoenix.

Mine is a wobbly hexagon someone’s taken a bite out of.

Yep, that sounds about right…

THE SCARS DON’T SHOW

Michael Brady is willing to risk it all

His career, the woman he loves, even his life

For the man who nearly killed him…

The Scars Don’t Show’ is the first Michael Brady Short Read. Books you can read in an evening. It will be published in March: you can pre-order it here https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08WPM8WXS

The Yorkshire Grunts

Many husbands – you may have noticed this yourself – can be irritating.

I’d like to say that I’m the exception. But you know me of old.

And my wife proof-reads these columns…

She’s long found me… ‘Challenging’ is a good word to use.

This week it was the turn of our old friend, the kitchen cupboard door.

“The cupboard door has come off again.”

“OK, I’m just finishing my book. I’m at 86,000 words.”

“The [word deleted] cupboard door has been hanging off since you were at 20,000 [oops, deleted again] words.”

In the old days I used to reason with her. Point out that Shakespeare never broke off from Hamlet to reach for his Phillips screwdriver. Surprisingly, that never went well…

Still, we’re getting a new kitchen as soon as you-know-what ends. I expect the cupboard doors will fix themselves.

But what really has her reaching for the nearest sharp/heavy/pointed (preferably all three) object is when I start speaking in tongues. Specifically Welsh, Scottish or the dialect she cheerfully refers to as ‘Yorkshire idiot.’

I think the children could be to blame. Alternatively it could be demonic possession.

We trundled off in the car on holiday. A cottage in the Borders. What could be more lovely? We’d stop for something to eat, we’d stop for someone to vomit and eventually we’d see a sign that said Scotland.

At which point I morphed into the lovechild of William Wallace and Rab C Nesbitt.

“Aye, we’ll soon be at the wee cottage. Aye, I’ll chase a haggis roond the garden the noo…”

The children loved it. My beloved was less impressed – especially if we’d been through the Tyne Tunnel and she’d spent half an hour sitting next to a deranged member of the Toon Army…

Wales? “I’m sorry, children, your father thinks he’s Ivor the Engine.”

Cornwall? No. There are certain parts of the country we never visited. Come to think of it I’ve never been to Liverpool or Brum with my wife either…

But there you are. No-one is going anywhere at the moment, so the accents round on Whose Line is it Anyway is a thing of the past.

If only…

The merest mention of West Yorkshire and I’m off. “Does tha’ want a cup o’ tea, our lass? ’Appen tha’ll be wanting t’biscuits for a spot o’ dunkin…”

This would be bad enough – but it’s combined with my advancing years. I can’t now get off the sofa/bend down/go upstairs without making a noise.

Beverley was knitting. “I need something to help me relax.” Something that involved teeny-tiny knitting needles. “Don’t worry, they’ll still go up your nose,” she said encouragingly.

But what you don’t want when your trying to relax is a Yorkshire idiot giving a running commentary as he turns the fire on…

“Tha’ wants t’fire on? By gum n’ it’s a long way down, tha’ knows.”

“Would you just – ” [go away is a loose translation] “ – with your Yorkshire grunts.”

“What did you just say?”

“I don’t know. I told you to be quiet.”

“No, the exact words.”

“Go away with your Yorkshire grunts.”

Well, not quite the exact phrase, but close enough.

And what a magnificent phrase as well. The Yorkshire Grunts.

It is – very obviously – a euphemism. Halfway through January and it is already Euphemism of the Year.

“Don’t eat too many eggs,” my Gran was fond of saying. “They’ll bind you. You don’t want to be costive.”

And that’s clearly what ‘the Yorkshire Grunts’ is a euphemism for. My wife – unwittingly – has launched a new phrase into the English language.

“Where’s Dad? Haven’t seen him for a while.”

“Aye well. ’Appen he’s locked away in t’privvy. Not enough fruit and veg. Bad case o’ t’Yorkshire Grunts…’

Fabulous! Had me gripped from start to finish. Reminded me of Mark Billingham’s detective, Tom Thorne. Excellent, can’t wait to read the second book.”

Salt in the Wounds is available on Amazon. The follow up, The River Runs Deep, can be pre-ordered now and will be published on January 31st

The Dad’s Gambit

My eldest son reached forward. Picked up the chess piece. “Pawn to e4,” he said.

A classic opening.

I countered with one of the lesser known chess moves. But one I’ve been working on for years. I’ve perfected it. I am – at least as far as this move goes – a Grandmaster.

I reached forward. Picked up my glass. “Wine to mouth 1,” I said.

I pushed a pawn forward. “The Sicilian,” I confidently declared.

Two moves later and Dan had taken it. “Sicilian? I think you’ve confused it with the pizza, Dad.”

What happened this Christmas? My boys played chess.

Wind back the clock and they disappeared to their bedrooms, linked laptops and slaughtered aliens.

This year? Chess is the new Halo.

The black bishops are the evil spawn from the outer Galaxy.

They trooped into the dining room, decided who was white – and spent an hour in silent contemplation.

They had an unofficial mini-league. Dan, Alex and Lizzie. You-know-what meant she couldn’t go home for Christmas. So here she was: 10,500 miles from her mum and dad and checkmating my youngest son.

“What’s that?” Alex said. “Twelve all?”

“I think I’m winning 13-12.”

And there you have it. Shared interests? Shared sense of humour? Forget ’em. Want your relationship to succeed? You need the same chess rating.

I didn’t get involved in the Christmas games. Largely because I spent most of Christmas washing up, peeling potatoes or exhausted on the sofa. I wandered in occasionally, noted that Dan generally seemed to be winning and wandered out.

And then Alex and Lizzie betrayed me. They braved Nicola’s border guards and went back to Edinburgh.

“Do you want to play chess after dinner, Dad?”

Yes.

And no.

Obviously I want to play chess with my son. But Dan’s doing a PhD. One that features equations. Equations that feature lots of Σ’s and those big, squiggly F’s.

So I wasn’t optimistic. The bookmakers were offering long odds on my survival.

And chess isn’t my game. I’m not sure it’s any writer’s game.

The wrong type of brain. Faulty wiring.

Creative, not analytical.

My brain especially. Definitely faulty wiring. But not the faulty wiring that Messrs Fischer and Spassky had.

I’d like to tell you that the game was close. That my ruthless execution of the Queen’s Gambit left him helpless. Floundering.

That after an hour of an intense battle between two intellectual titans we shook hands – whoops, bumped elbows – on a draw.

I’d like to tell you that. In truth it was the Chinese People’s Army against a primitive tribe who’d barely mastered the bow and arrow.

And it only got worse when he went back to Leeds.

Our games moved online.

See above. Faulty wiring. Inability to concentrate. And when you can’t concentrate, online is not a good place to be.

You’ve taken my Queen! I wailed into the chat box.

Yes, you moved your knight, he typed back.

Well I wasn’t concentrating

That’s not my fault, Dad

You took so long to make your move that I checked the football scores

So I checked the scores again. No change…

“I’d threaten his Queen if I had any pieces left,” I complained to my lovely wife. “I managed one cunning plan. Skewered his castle – ”

“And then you sat on your laurels.”

Yes. And drank some more wine.

“I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll offer him a draw. What could be a fairer result between father and son? A magnanimous draw, both players acknowledging the other’s skill and prowess?”

I reached for my mouse. Double-clicked the ‘offer draw’ button.

Dan’s response was simple and to the point. He checkmated me…

Michael Brady had my interest from the first chapter. By the fifth I had a crush. Salt in the Wounds is an exciting story, played out in a location almost as engaging as the book’s characters. Can’t wait for the second book…”

The second book, The River Runs Deep, will be published on January 31st. You can pre-order it by clicking the link.

The Cleanest Clean

I received a generous dollop of Cold Tongue Pie the other night.

I broke a dinner plate. But it wasn’t for that. Nope, it was because I broke the wrong dinner plate…

“I’ve broken a plate,” I confessed, already reaching for the hair-shirt.

My wife went into the kitchen. “You’ve broken the wrong one,” she said accusingly. “Why didn’t you break the one with the chip in it?”

Married life, eh? You think you’ve finally mastered it after 27 years and then you break the wrong plate…

But I have bigger fish to fry. Or should that be, bigger crayfish?

“How are you doing?” we asked Alex two weeks into lockdown.

“I’m good,” he said. “My flatmates have gone home and I’m locked down with Lizzie.”

Yep, two weeks into lockdown and our youngest son was marooned inside his flat with his new, Australian girlfriend.

“And what’s Lizzie doing?” we asked. “Writing an essay?”

“No,” he said. “She’s cooking a crayfish stir-fry.”

Well, you know what I’m going to write next. Lizzie is coming to visit. Tomorrow.

Which might explain my I have a looming appointment with the oven cleaner. And a screwdriver.

My wife has decided the house needs cleaning. And fixing. I was due to sort the shower out as well – or paddling pool as it was rapidly becoming – but she lost patience and did it herself.

But does it really need doing?

Will Lizzie even notice?

When I was a young lad – still at university – I went to stay at my girlfriend’s. I never once looked at the top of the cooker. There could have been a Komodo Dragon living in the kitchen and I wouldn’t have noticed.

The shower? Yep, I definitely had some thoughts about the shower, but they had nothing to do with how quickly the water was draining…

Bluntly, I only had one thing on my mind.

When were her damn parents going out for a walk?

Come on, the sun’s shining, you live five minutes from the beach. And go to the pub on the way back…

No chance. Christine’s father very pointedly sat in his armchair and turned the TV on. “That’s me settled in for the night,” he declared.

Why not say what you mean? ‘There’ll be no hanky-panky under my roof, young man. And don’t try anything in the night either. Heard you were coming. Installed some special creaky floorboards…’

I now realise there was a sub-plot. He was – I can barely write the words – from the South. He didn’t want to risk any Yorkshire blood in his daughter’s home counties pedigree.

Anyway, a few million gallons of water have flowed under the bridge, and here I am now cast in the role of grumpy old dad settling in for the night.

Except I’m not. I’ve already told my wife that we’ll be doing the decent thing and going for a tactical walk on the beach. Or more likely Beverley will be going to visit her mother and I’ll go and hide in the office.

But first things first. The oven…

And what do you know? She’s already done it. The top of the oven is immaculate. Glistening as the sun peaks in through the kitchen window.

“You’ve done it,” I said as Beverley came out of the shower. “I said I’d do it.”

“I just wanted it done and off the list,” she said.

But like with Christine’s dad and his creaky floorboards, there was a sub-plot. ‘I just wanted it done properly.’

When I clean something there are three stages. ‘Call that clean?’ Clean-ish and what I fondly imagine is ‘really clean.’

And then there’s cleaned by my wife…

Smoke on the Ceiling

I was on the phone. And I was fighting a losing battle.

“The book about Pepper is in Germany,” I said.

“What did you say?” came the reply. “All I can hear is a guitar.”

I finally made myself understood. My wife looked up from the other side of the dining room table. “Are you auditioning for MI5, dear?”

“What?” Sometimes the woman talks in riddles.

“The book about Pepper is in Germany…”

“Yes, Amazon printed the paperbacks in Poland. They go to Germany and then they’re flown to the UK.”

“You still sounded like an apprentice James Bond. What was the reply to your password? Ze cheese sauce for my cauli – fleur eez in Normandie?”

I let her cheap sarcasm pass. “It’s a wonder I can make myself understood at all,” I said, gesturing at the ceiling. “You can’t win against Jimmy Page.”

“Who?”

“Jimmy Page. Lead guitar in Led Zeppelin. I thought you knew a lot about music.”

“It’s Deep Purple,” she said.

“What is?”

Smoke on the Water.”

I checked on Google. So it was.

We were eating breakfast. But humble pie was still on the menu. And those of you who’d tagged me under ‘old so probably a heavy metal fan’ will need to revise your filing systems…

Alex has been home from university for two months now. He arrived with the avowed intent of teaching himself the guitar. He’s been as good as his word and – like all beginner guitarists – has been playing Smoke on the Water remorselessly.

So far, so good. A basic guitar he found in Dan’s bedroom and he was making progress.

And then disaster struck. Josh went back to college.

“Hell’s teeth,” I said. “What’s that? It sounds like the Rolling Stones are warming up.”

There it was again. Coming straight through the dining room ceiling. The clear, unmistakable sounds of an electric guitar.

We rushed up to what had once been our son’s bedroom and was now a recording studio.

“What’s that?” I said, staring at an electric guitar.

Alex did his best not to use the is-it-time-for-your-medication expression my wife and daughter have perfected. He didn’t quite manage it this time…

“An electric guitar,” he said proudly.

“And what’s that black box on the floor?”

“An amp.”

“So Josh has gone back to college and left you those?”

He nodded. I searched noise cancelling headphones on Amazon. Meanwhile I tried to work with Smoke on the Water running endlessly through my head.

“I think we should have Josh’s head on a spike for this,” I muttered.

“Don’t be silly. However loud he is he’s still quieter than Eleanor. Don’t you remember when she was learning the trombone?”

Do I ever? Two terms of purgatory when the school somehow cajoled the Beloved Daughter into trombone lessons. Just when she was at her bolshie-teenager phase as well.

“That’s it, Eleanor. I’ve had enough. Go up to your bedroom and stay there.”

And thirty seconds later she was standing outside the lounge door ‘practising’ the trombone.

But relief was at hand. Two days later the Music Gods smiled on me. Smoke gave way to Sunshine of your Love. Yes! Eric Clapton! One small step for my son, a giant leap for music.

I may even get Layla before he goes back to Edinburgh.

And let’s keep things in perspective. It may be a distraction but it’s still preferable to his First Serious Girlfriend coming round to “help me with my revision.”

But nothing ventured…

I thought I’d try that line on my lovely wife. “Help me with my proof-reading.” You’ll be astonished to hear that after 27 years of marriage it didn’t work…

It’s Wasted on the Young

The window’s open. Cars are whizzing up and down the road outside.

‘Lockdown? Rings a bell, mate. Just remind me will you…’

But I can’t complain. Lockdown has been good to me.

I’ve been out walking every day. I’m fitter – I may even be one of the few people in the country who’s lost weight.

But there’s been a price to pay. Mostly by my knees. Goodness me coming downstairs first thing in the morning is a struggle. And then when I do get downstairs there’s ten minutes of stretching to tell my back it’s a new day.

“I’m done for,” I said to my lovely and ever sympathetic wife.

“What? Permanently?”

“Possibly.”

“That’s a nuisance,” she said. “It’s your turn to cook dinner.”

I reassured her that I might survive long enough to cook Parmesan Chicken. In return she treated me to her I-suppose-I’d-better-express-an-interest face. “What’s fallen off this time?”

She’s not a woman who’s impressed by lists. I merely indicated that sitting at a desk all day wasn’t doing me any good. “You know what they say. Sitting is the new smoking.”

“It’s hardly coal mining is it?”

“What?”

“Writing and editing, dear. Sitting on your bum and breaking off to make yet another coffee is not coal mining. Last time I checked you were wearing shorts and a t-shirt. It’s hardly full PPE.”

I grudgingly conceded she might have a point. And looked out of the window. Two teenagers went past on bikes. Two remarkably fit young people jogged by on the other side of the road.

They had what I need.

The problem is, I’m feeling a little bit mortal. My brother was my age when he died of cancer. Ten more years and that was the end of my dad.

I need to be young again.

I need this fantastic new invention. I spotted it when I was out every day in lockdown. Apparently it’s called ‘youth.’

Goodness only knows who invented it. People my age would pay an absolute fortune for it.

And yet – astonishingly – the inventors of youth give it away for free! And they give it away to people who don’t appreciate it. Who completely waste it. Who have not the slightest idea what to do with it.

Who use up their supply of youth on drinking and parties and nightclubs and everything that goes with them.

Fortunately I have a solution. It would cure the nation’s health woes at a stroke and – bluntly – it cannot be beyond the wit of modern technology to arrange it.

What we do is give millennials a taste of getting older. A week should do it. Bad back. Eye drops every night. Fired out of bed by an ageing bladder at two in the morning. ‘Don’t forget to take your tablets.’

A week of that and they’d appreciate this ‘youth’ thing they’ve been given.

That’s my plan for improving the health of the nation. Send millennials a postcard from their old age and they’d be far less likely to let themselves go. ‘Cheese? Red wine? You must be joking. Still remember when they gave me that grey haired bloke’s body. Nightmare week…’

I’ll send an e-mail to Matt Hancock. It’s not like he’s got anything pressing at the moment.

And – of course – while millennials are learning to tell the time by their bladder, I get a week of being young again.

Whoop!

‘Hangover? Rings a bell, mate. Just remind me will you?’

Think of all the exciting things I could do without worrying about my back. Putting my socks on. Emptying the dishwasher. And the other one.

Whatever it was. Just remind me will you…

Pasta al Vomito

Let’s say you’re writing a novel. You fall into one of two camps. You’re a plotter – or a pantser.

You either plot it all out beforehand, or you fly by the seat of your pants.

Isn’t cooking just the same? You either plot it out – follow Delia’s recipe and do as you’re told – or you make it up as you go along.

If I’m writing, I’m a plotter. I don’t want to re-write Chapter 2 because I’ve reached Chapter 22 and realised that the shifty, ne’er-do-well nephew did it after all.

But when I’m in the kitchen – no, not with the candlestick or the lead piping – plotting goes out of the window.

Recipe? Who’s got time for that?

5g of chilli powder? Nah… That looks about right. Maybe a bit more.

Lightly simmer for ten minutes? Sorry, Delia, it looks done to me…

Sometimes this approach works.

Sometimes it doesn’t.

And sometimes it serves up Pasta with Cat Puke.

Let me explain. I stumbled across a recipe. Chorizo and Prawn Salad. The aforementioned Delia? Joe Wicks? Lean in 15? Yes, an easy assumption to make, given my toned physique and rippling six pack…

Nope, this was from the chef for Wolverhampton Wanderers. Who said I was desperate for news of football…

‘That looks nice,’ thinks I. ‘Could adapt it to go with pasta.’

So I do. Chorizo, prawns, a few spring onions, some cherry toms. We all think it tastes fine. “Maybe it needs a sauce,” my wife murmurs.

We all think it needs a sauce. “I’ll do it again in a few days,” I say confidently. “And I’ll make a sauce.”

Now at this stage a plotter would have done the sensible thing. Consulted Google. How to make a prawn sauce for pasta. Thirty million results. One of them might work…

But no, I’ve got my pants on.

Pants on, brains off.

‘Well, if I just fry off some of the prawns, chorizo etc first and then blitz them that’ll make a sauce…’

No, it didn’t. It did make a fine mess on my t-shirt as the hand-blitzer cheerfully sprayed tomato around the kitchen. But yep, eventually the ingredients were reduced to a liquid.

And now let’s talk about your cat. She throws up. You inspect the result. There are two possible trains of thought.

‘Hmmm… That looks pretty solid. I could pretend not to have noticed it.’

‘Oh crap, that’s going to soak into the carpet.’

The blitzer had produced option B. Prawns and tomatoes. Pale pink cat puke.

Maybe you could describe it as pink porridge. Which sounds worryingly like a euphemism for something found in the darkest depths of the dark web.

My wife and youngest son peered dubiously at their bowls.

“I’ve made a sauce,” I said helpfully.

They continued to stare into their bowls. “Try it then,” I said.

They did, with some reluctance.

“Transmogrification,” Beverley said.

“What’s that then?” I said smugly. “When Harry Potter turns someone into a cat?”

“Changing something into a different form,” she said, tapping it into Google and forcing me to have a slice of humble pie as a starter. “All you’ve done is ‘Chorizo and Prawns Two Ways.’ And one of the ways is vomit.”

“It’s a sauce,” I repeated.

“Dearest, it is not a sauce. Neither is it a reduction or an emulsion or a jus or any of those other up-your-own-arse words off MasterChef. It’s cat puke.”

She tapped away on her phone again. “There,” she said triumphantly. “I’ve given it an Italian name. Pasta al Vomito di Gatto.”

I hate that about my wife. Sitting on the fence. Never telling me what she really thinks…