'Come on, Mum, we're meant to be cooking for tomorrow.' Lily is taking a breather from singing a non-stop medley from her old school songbooks. I am being distracted by emails.
'Come and watch this,' I say. Cousin Claude has sent me a video link. We watch as this tedious double-chinned woman meanders through her house, leaving a trail of undone tasks in her wake. 'Oh God, it's me!' I wail.
'Except you're not so fat,' dismisses Lily, going back to her medley. 'Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la, la la la la.'
Had better do some cooking. Right. Tabbouleh.
Oh my God! Can’t believe how long that’s taken. All that precision chopping. Cutting and de-stalking the parsley takes about half an hour and then it all sticks to your fingers and then at the end of it, you don’t have four tablespoons of chopped parsley, you have half a tablespoon of chopped parsley.
Text Dan: ‘Argh! Too many people coming to lunch. Tabbouleh is a full-time job.’
He texts back: ‘Being the head of a bank would be a full-time job.’