conked out again, which, judging by the fetching outfit you’re wearing, you’ve already worked out for yourself. I don’t know what I’m going to do, Lydia. It’s pantsing freezing and of course nobody wants to come out to patch it up a couple of days before Christmas, and in this weather! And to cap it all, I can’t pantsing get this pantsing thing working, and if I want to have it hot enough to cook Christmas dinner in, then today is the last chance I have to get it lit. Every time I think I’ve got it going, it goes out again. I pantsing hate farting Agas!’
‘Pants, farts!’ Tilly giggled, before adding forlornly. ‘I’m awfully starving, Mummy.’
‘Excuse me.’ Lydia pressed the back of her hand against Katy’s creased forehead. ‘Who are you and what have you done with my friend Katy, you know the one that was reading
The Aga Cookbook
aloud back when the rest of us were living off Pot Noodle on toast? The one that spent her university years channelling Martha Stewart and owned her first set of homemade ceramic
napkin rings
by the time she was twenty-four?’
‘That was then, before I actually had a f— farting Aga,’ Katy wailed. ‘No one said anything about them being bast … bar stewards. Honestly, Lydia, owning an Aga doesn’t make me feel nearly as smug as I’d hoped!’
Lydia smiled, hugging Katy tightly; the poor woman was clearly suffering from a serious bout of reality.
‘Okay, well … It’s not the end of the world if it’s not working. It probably needs some sort of service, or something. You’ll be able to get it up and running before New Year, I bet. And in the meantime, you made a feast last night, how did you do that?’
‘That thing,’ Katy said sullenly, nodding at a standalone electric cooker that was stuffed in the corner. It looked decades old, was dented and slightly rusty around the hob, and Lydia had to admit that, if she hadn’t been in the presence of her uncharacteristically highly-strung and stressed-out dear friend, she would have immediately recommended that it be condemned as a health and safety hazard. Still, looks weren’t always everything, and Katy had clearly been using it for weeks, judging by the large quantities of what looked like homemade mince pies, mini Yule logs and brandy snaps that were stacked up in Tupperware all around the kitchen.
‘Well, that looks perfectly up to the job of cooking a turkey to me,’ Lydia lied.
‘I know, it’s just that I’ll have to do everything in shifts, and try and keep stuff warm while I’m waiting for other stuff to cook, and … and … oh f— fiddle sticks, Lydia. How am I ever going to cook breakfast for twenty people every day on that pile of junk? I told Jim a kitchen was more important than all those floodlights, I told him!’
‘Katy, breathe,’ Lydia said firmly, pointing at the seat next to Tilly. ‘Sit down. I’ll make coffee and breakfast.’
‘But you’re the guest,’ Katy complained. ‘I was going to do a great big feast in the dining room, with cinnamon lattes and … and gingerbread croissants.’
‘Please let Aunty Lydia make breakfast,’ Tilly begged her, plaintively. ‘So that I can eat again.’
‘Sit!’ Lydia commanded her. ‘Let’s sort us, and Tilly, out first, and then I’m sure we can rustle up something for everyone else. Relax. I’ve got this all under control.’
‘Isn’t that what you said when you were trying to hail us a taxi back from that night club, and it turned out to be a police car and we all spent hours in a cell?’
‘Yes, that’s true, but I was eighteen then. I’m a grown-up woman now.’
‘Debatable,’ Katy said, but she was smiling as she leaned her chin on her hands and watched Lydia fill the kettle and heap spoonfuls of instant coffee into two mugs, and hot chocolate into another. Sensing something food related was afoot, Vincent appeared from somewhere, shuffled in, sniffed the air and then collapsed in an unruly heap under
‘Pants, farts!’ Tilly giggled, before adding forlornly. ‘I’m awfully starving, Mummy.’
‘Excuse me.’ Lydia pressed the back of her hand against Katy’s creased forehead. ‘Who are you and what have you done with my friend Katy, you know the one that was reading
The Aga Cookbook
aloud back when the rest of us were living off Pot Noodle on toast? The one that spent her university years channelling Martha Stewart and owned her first set of homemade ceramic
napkin rings
by the time she was twenty-four?’
‘That was then, before I actually had a f— farting Aga,’ Katy wailed. ‘No one said anything about them being bast … bar stewards. Honestly, Lydia, owning an Aga doesn’t make me feel nearly as smug as I’d hoped!’
Lydia smiled, hugging Katy tightly; the poor woman was clearly suffering from a serious bout of reality.
‘Okay, well … It’s not the end of the world if it’s not working. It probably needs some sort of service, or something. You’ll be able to get it up and running before New Year, I bet. And in the meantime, you made a feast last night, how did you do that?’
‘That thing,’ Katy said sullenly, nodding at a standalone electric cooker that was stuffed in the corner. It looked decades old, was dented and slightly rusty around the hob, and Lydia had to admit that, if she hadn’t been in the presence of her uncharacteristically highly-strung and stressed-out dear friend, she would have immediately recommended that it be condemned as a health and safety hazard. Still, looks weren’t always everything, and Katy had clearly been using it for weeks, judging by the large quantities of what looked like homemade mince pies, mini Yule logs and brandy snaps that were stacked up in Tupperware all around the kitchen.
‘Well, that looks perfectly up to the job of cooking a turkey to me,’ Lydia lied.
‘I know, it’s just that I’ll have to do everything in shifts, and try and keep stuff warm while I’m waiting for other stuff to cook, and … and … oh f— fiddle sticks, Lydia. How am I ever going to cook breakfast for twenty people every day on that pile of junk? I told Jim a kitchen was more important than all those floodlights, I told him!’
‘Katy, breathe,’ Lydia said firmly, pointing at the seat next to Tilly. ‘Sit down. I’ll make coffee and breakfast.’
‘But you’re the guest,’ Katy complained. ‘I was going to do a great big feast in the dining room, with cinnamon lattes and … and gingerbread croissants.’
‘Please let Aunty Lydia make breakfast,’ Tilly begged her, plaintively. ‘So that I can eat again.’
‘Sit!’ Lydia commanded her. ‘Let’s sort us, and Tilly, out first, and then I’m sure we can rustle up something for everyone else. Relax. I’ve got this all under control.’
‘Isn’t that what you said when you were trying to hail us a taxi back from that night club, and it turned out to be a police car and we all spent hours in a cell?’
‘Yes, that’s true, but I was eighteen then. I’m a grown-up woman now.’
‘Debatable,’ Katy said, but she was smiling as she leaned her chin on her hands and watched Lydia fill the kettle and heap spoonfuls of instant coffee into two mugs, and hot chocolate into another. Sensing something food related was afoot, Vincent appeared from somewhere, shuffled in, sniffed the air and then collapsed in an unruly heap under
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