Mr F telephoned me at about 5.30 last evening.
‘Where are you?’ he asked, in the tremulous tone of a man who fears he’s been abandoned.
I said, ‘I’m in Malibu. I’ve run off with Clint Eastwood.’
Just kidding. Actually I was two rooms away making Cheezy Feet cookies. This picture, by the way, is not of my cookies. Mine are a lovely golden cheddary colour and the big toes protrude more. I did take a photo but as I can’t find the doofer that siphons images from the camera to the computer you’ll have to imagine as best you can.
My husband’s next question: ‘why?’ He meant the cookies not Clint Eastwood. And I suppose the simplest answer would have been, ‘why not?’ I had the cheese, I had the technology, the rain was lashing against the window and the last time I’d looked in on him my husband had assumed the Eyelid Resting Position. What else is a girl going to do? But also, today we have a grandchild’s first birthday tea and later this week we have two little granddaughters coming to stay, which seems to me to add up to three very sound reasons for baking Cheezy Feet.
It’s a XX chromosome kind of thing. I rest my case.