“I think it’s probably best that we avoid the kitchen,” comments E1, coming back into the girls’ bedroom, where the three of us are taking refuge in the suddenly male-dominated household. A couple of their friends are visiting, and the testosterone level has risen sharply. To my distress, even though one of the guys is incredibly good-looking, the entire conversation seems to revolve around farts when the four of them are together. A football is bouncing around the house, the aroma is pungent, and a remote control car has been taken apart in the name of science.
Nevertheless, they are cooking dinner, so we are keeping silent and out of the way in the hope of eventually being fed. E1 has just returned from her trip downstairs, the purpose of which was to ascertain why the words “red food colouring” kept floating up the stairs.
“Is the chicken pink?” asks E2 sadly, as E1 shuts the door firmly behind her and looks around as if considering wedging it shut with a heavy object. “Yes,” she affirms resignedly. “But I think it’s going to be edible.”
“Wait a second,” I ask in some confusion, “Why is the chicken pink?”
E1 sighs heavily as she sinks back on to her bed. “Because,” she explains wearily, “someone left Jay alone in the kitchen.”
Sometimes just one sentence can explain so much.