So they’ve all gone. But not before my aunt managed to fall out with me as well, just minutes before she left. She was lecturing me about something and I didn’t show enough interest so she got very grumpy. Stupid really, I only had another half an hour to go. I felt rather like one of those unfortunate prisoners-of-war who was shot minutes before the Allied forces rolled in. I also gave her a copy of Ciao Bella. Not because I wanted to, but because she asked for it. As I wrote a dedication I felt like I was signing away my inheritance. I’m not sure she’ll like what she reads. It is all true, but most people don’t often enjoy seeing the truth about themselves in print. I’m sure I would be the same. Especially as I have focused on her inability to tell the truth 90 per cent of the time.
So now the big clean-up starts. The house is in chaos. My father, who was brought up with maids, has left a trail of destruction behind him. I feel like Mrs Tittlemouse after a particularly long visit from the odious Mr Toad. Granted my father is a lot more interesting than Mr Toad, even if he has a similar body shape. But the good news is women who do housework are less likely to get breast cancer. Yep, that’s the conclusion from research on more than 200,000 women carried out by Cancer Research UK. If you don’t believe me check out the link http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/em/fr/-/2/hi/health/6214655.stm. So as I hoover and dust and empty the dishwasher for the 405th time during 10 days I can console myself with the fact that my chances of surviving breast cancer are getting higher every moment.
I have another theory. My theory is this: if you really want to avoid getting cancer watch someone else do the housework while a man at least 10 years younger than you plays with your breasts. I have yet to furnish any proof for this theory but am sure I won’t have trouble finding women willing to take part in this essential medical experiment. I, for example, am willing to sacrifice myself in the name of science.