The table is set, the wine is uncorked, the lasagne is browning nicely in the oven. I am pretty chuffed with myself. Look at this, Mr Not Waving! I don’t need your ‘Why don’t you whip up some Chantilly cream instead of just plonking the Elmlea carton on the table?’ input. Yeah, enjoy your evening in the pub, Cordon Bleu boy. I’ve got this entertaining thing nailed.
But wait – something’s missing! Something that is guaranteed to give my several-times-postponed (thanks, chickenpox outbreak) birthday supper the perfect ambience. Of course! Quickly, get upstairs to the bathroom, Son, and produce a Guinness World Record-breaking, foul-smelling log the length of my forearm. Yes, one of your ‘five a day? More like five a month’ specials, a dark-as-coal, dense, 100 per cent meat one. Hurry now, the guests are about to arrive! Make sure it smells more acrid than a slurry pit – I need a stench from which Beelzebub himself would recoil, and which no amount of Tesco Christmas Spice tealights and opening of various windows can dispel. Go! And while you’re up there, ask your sister to come down. I need a waitress to pass round the peanuts – one with suppurating chickenpox sores AND nits will be just the ticket.