Grief

I'm sitting here boiling eggs, watching eight toasties cooling off on the draining board and waiting for Mrs. Fingers and the Fingernails to come home and wondering if there's anything else I should be getting ready for tomorrow's picnic outing to St. Bertrand de Comminges. Inexpensive red wine may play a part in this sentence, but I'm wondering just how more perfect a husband and father can be. OK, it's not my first glass, but give me a break.

The family is round at the cousins'/brother's/family place. Being of Spanish/guilt-ridden Catholic stock, Mrs. F's sense of time and proportion take an extended holiday whenever she is with the others. That's no bad thing in itself, but it's not as she even enjoys being there with them. No-one exists outside this particular world she is currently suffering from, but tonight did have a first: Fingernail I actually phoned me nearly an hour after I'd finished preparing tonight's dinner to tell me that Mummy was asking if I could prepare tomorrow's picnic lunch. I didn't bother asking what time they thought they'd be coming back; I'd tried that on previous occasions. I suggested they eat before they came back, otherwise I knew they'd pitch up at 10pm with empty stomachs. I know this doesn't sound like any big deal, but you have no idea how unhealthily dishonest this contact is. Mrs. F becomes like an irresponsible ten-year-old, forgets her otherwise Himmleresque-maintained children's mealtimes and seems to feign ignorance when challenged. And for what? It's not like she even has a good time.

There's nothing like a dysfunctional family vortex. Oh, they're home. Three hours late.