Who's the Daddy: Letting Dad cook for Christmas

Now our daughters are home for Christmas, they say the best thing about being back is they don’t have to make their own dinner every night.

Saturday, 25th December 2021, 12:30 pm

Turns out shopping for food, dragging it back to their student accommodation, emptying the bags, storing it in the fridge, freezer and kitchen cupboards and then taking it out again to cook it after a day at uni is a pain in the backside. Who knew?

There’s this saying that you don’t realise how heavy water is until you have to carry your own. Well, it’s true.

So far in the past week daughters #1 and #2 have casually strolled into the kitchen to eat chicken and mushroom risotto, Korean beef bulgogi, chicken stroganoff and a roast dinner– specifically requested on a Tuesday night – which is preceded by the magic words “It’s ready!” after someone else (me) has gone out, bought it and then cooked it.

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Who is the Daddy

Of course, thanks to Boris Johnson’s malevolent incompetence, which seems to plumb new depths each week, we could all find ourselves spending a lot more time together cooped up in our house watching endless episodes of Grey’s Anatomy (honestly, it goes on forever – 388 episodes and counting) which, for those of you who haven’t seen it, is a bit like Holby City but starring Calvin Klein underwear models. Network TV is essentially rubbish. Christmas TV more so. Now that we’ve all grown used to the world’s finest shows being available on tap (want to see The Beatles just past their prime writing and rehearsing new songs for eight hours? Here you go…) the networks’ lame attempts at festive delights are as appealing as a burst tyre on the M6 at midnight. It’s like a children’s entertainer turning up at a 13th birthday party, suddenly realising his end-of-the-pier act which wowed the kids when they were seven now runs the risk of a Daphne and Celeste-style bottling off stage at the Reading Festival back in 2000. Anyway, I hope you all have a great Christmas. Thanks for reading this weekly stream of consciousness. For me it’s been like attending confession every Thursday, minus all the imaginary space pixies.