Possibly because I occasionally buy huge quantities of fruit to make jam, or maybe just because I ride a bike and mend my own clothes, the guy in the fruit and veg shop seems to have me boxed as a domestic-goddess/ earth-mother. He is usually waiting for me with tips and ideas for recipes, and he often throws in a freebie of something he’s trying to get rid of and thinks I should be able to use lots of.
My child on the other hand lives with me, and therefore possibly has a more realistic picture. We were sitting in idle companionship on the front doorstep watching the world go by as one does on a sunny evening in Argentina, when he turned to me and said dispasionately:
“Mummy, cut the grass”.
He was right, it was quite long. So long in fact that the bane-of-my-life grass cutting machine starting smoking half way through and I had to turn it off and finish the worst bits by hand with a pair of sheers. Another couple of years and I’ll be teaching Joni to use the stupid thing himself.