In a rare fit of truthfulness on the blog, I will admit that I am visiting my elderly mother for Christmas.
Having offered to cook Christmas lunch for whichever of the very limited family choose to attend, I decided that it was about time I stopped complaining about the inadequacies of the maternal kitchen and bought some kitchen knives that suit me.
I didn’t think it was a particularly good idea to carry the knives with me, even in hold luggage, so waited until I got to the UK to buy them. Here, I was intrigued to find that at one store the young till assistant had to inform the manager every time a knife was sold. I’m not sure if that was a special seasonal instruction or not, but I’m not a big festive fan and I sympathise with anyone who dislikes this time of year. Even so, as I pointed out to the lad, it was only a relatively small paring knife; if I wanted to do any reasonable damage I’d have opted for one of the range of carvers they had on special offer.
I thought I’d let the knives double as Christmas presents. This meant I decided my mother should open her gifts last night as I’ll be needing them for preparing the Christmas lunch and any meals I make in the meantime. Since she was cooking tonight’s meal, I insisted she should ‘christen’ them.
Which is how it came about that barely 24 hours after I arrived in the house, first blood was drawn.
There’s almost a fortnight left before I return to Spain, during which time other family members may be joining us. Heaven knows what wounds we will manage to inflict.