Janet Christie, Mum's the Word

Middle Child moves in coffee tables, a La-Z-Boy recliner and there was an attempt to install a massive Hammond organ he and his bro’ found in the street on the way back from the pub. Just as well the racket in the stair woke me and it never made it over the threshold.

“Why would someone chuck that?” they slurred, incredulous.

“Because it’s broken. Out.”

Eldest sees us all living in a multi-generational house for ever, everyone (that’ll be me) cooking for 25, the washing machine never still, music and laughter, 24 hours a day. OMG, as Youngest would say.

“Well you can take over the mortgage then,” I say.

“No problem. When the band makes it big.”

Eh? I thought I was getting a house in Spain.

Only Youngest has plans to leave. “Obviously,” she says. “As soon as I can.”

Oh, OK then. Bit hurtful, but still…

Anyway, Sunday nights we gather round David Attenborough or Sir Boaty McBoatface as he’s known in our house, together on the sofa, sitcom style, like a ‘real’ family. Well the ones on Gogglebox that Youngest shows me on her mobile, the “posh woman that drinks and swears at her husband” being a favourite of hers.

There’s even knitting, with Youngest almost finished her scarf while I struggle with my welt – worrying whether baby iguanas will outrun snakes, or crazy bear cubs will stop messing around in time to fatten up before winter puts me more on edge than a Nubian ibex, so stitches are dropped. By the credits I’m wrung out, so Eldest makes us cups of tea and we snooze through a gentle drama set in Ireland during the Second World War.

“We’ve been watching this for 20 minutes now and no-one’s been murdered or had anything too bad happen to them,” says Middle. “Nice.”

I knew it! Take that, shoot-’em-up sexist, violent, virtual world video games. You’re no match for Mother Earth. n