wotiwrote

My wife has taken my daughter and some of her friends for a windsurfing party. Beats a bouncy castle. When I was growing up in Edinburgh parties were all the same. You went to the boy's house (it was almost always boys unless the girl was a relative and I didn't have many of them) and played some games in one room and then retreated to another to create havoc. The only difference was in the food served and in the houses themselves.

My job is to man the barbecue on their return. To make that job all the more pleasant in the heat of the late afternoon I shall be wearing a chef's hat that Isla bought at a tacky novelty shop yesterday. It makes me want to put on a cod Swedish accent a la Chef from The Muppets.

There is a fine line between appearing fun and appearing foolish. Now that my children are growing older they have become less tolerant of my antics when their friends are around. Kirstie - my youngest - even hits me in mortified torment when I sing outside when walking her to school. That may be evidence of a trained musical ear rather than simple intolerance, of course. Anyway, because Isla chose the hat it's essential that I wear it while cooking. If I had selected it and worn it there would have been shrieks of embarrassed indignation.

Ah, well. Better get the thing lit.