My wife, for reasons best left to her to explain, has gone to Glastonbury this week. The logic behind it is simple: it’s 40 years of Glastonbury this year, and she turns forty in two months time. I prefer to describe it as a mid-life crisis, but apparently women don’t have those, according to her.
So, in her absence, my mum’s looking after the children, I’m fending for myself, and somebody’s looking after the pub’s kitchen.
Of course, without the ship’s captain to keep sense and order in the place, something was bound to go wrong. I wasn’t, however, expecting this to happen to the glass on the hob:
Now, let’s all be good and not mention it to Ali before Monday, eh…? And then, on Monday, would somebody be good enough to tell her for me, as I’m a little worried about that conversation…