“Would you be sad,” I said to the boy, “if I blogged this photo?” and he came over to look over my shoulder. “Mon sublime torse,” he said, considering. “Mon beau caleçon, chuis en train de lire mon bouquin de Romain Gary.” “Vas-y,” he said, “blog it.”

Boys. They know things, some of them, and some of the things they know are how to jump thin-sliced potatoes and string beans in a pan with bits of onions burnt like sugar.

We are trying, these days – and really there is only today left – to eat all the food in the house before we leave.



The giant chèvre went towards a goat cheese and tomato tart. We thought there would be leftovers, but we ate the whole thing while France scored three goals against Italy in the football Wednesday.

We unearthed, in the freezer, (Olive’s stepmother has a penchant for frozen foods), (few of them ice cream), turkey fillets for a mustard–crème fraîche stir-fry and cauliflower florets for sauté-ing in butter. We haven’t done too badly, altogether, with the surprises in the deep-freeze, but I think the frozen blocks of cream-flavoured spinach are going to have to go in the bin.

What I want to know, though, is how many cans of tuna a kitchen cupboard can hide. We had a tuna salad one afternoon, and then another. We are having penne in a tuna-tinged sauce tonight. There are – remember the salad! Remember the salamo! – tuna leftovers still for the train tomorrow.

This just in! – and oh, is this, this sweet, instant gratification, what it’s like to live on a twenty-four-hour news channel – This just in!: The boy has just cleaned us out of chorizo.