I had to invite them both.

I had to invite them, my bonehead daughter and her equally boofhead husband. OK, so they are celebrities on the television, big deal. Their silly domestic squabbles all the time, they should know better. I won’t stand for it, I’ll put them straight.

Over the roast chicken they pout, not talking to one another, pretending everything is all right.

‘Do you like the chicken, Gary?’ I ask by way of conversation.

‘It’s better than the chicken I usually get.’

‘At Red Rooster?’ I ask.

‘No. At home.’

‘He likes it burnt to a crisp,’ interrupts Elaine.

‘Well, not raw, like you,’ mutters Gary. ‘You eat it still wriggling.’

‘At least I don’t crunch through the bones like a Neanderthal.’

‘You make as much noise with your swallowing. I hate swallowing noises.’

‘What about you guttural throat emptying in the bathroom? Disgusting.

‘Not as bad as the long hairs you leave everywhere blocking the plug hole.

There was silence. This is what I expected. ‘You two used to get on so well,’ I say, by way of trying to encourage reconciliation.

‘His idea of romance is giving me a pat on the bottom,’ says Elaine.

‘It’s contact.’

‘You pat the dog in the same way.’

‘I’m trying to relate to you.’

‘A pat on the bottom is no substitute for romance.’

‘You’ve put on weight. That’s not romantic.’

‘Oh don’t start on me. Women beef up as they age.’

‘Well, you’ve overbeefed.’

‘I beg your pardon. Your chin sags and you have eye bags.’

‘At least I don’t dye my hair and have eyebrow threading at Garden City.’

‘Well you should think about – on your nose.’

There’s more silence. I serve mango mousse. It’s from a Jamie recipe and doesn’t look right.

‘Difficult to make mousse,’ I say. ‘Never fluffy enough.’

‘Ask Elaine to make it, she’s good at fluff.’

‘What do you mean?

‘Exaggerating, misinterpreting.’

‘You’re the one who exaggerates. You said there was a wasp’s nest on the deck. It was just a lump of mud off you dirty boots.’

I thought this squabbling would never end. How to stop this nonsense between these two. They are hardly adults.

At that moment my husband Walter arrives from working late. ‘We finally signed the deal,’ he says. ‘Four hundred thousand,’

I go to the adjoining kitchen.

‘Chicken’s gone cold now,’ I mutter ‘Couldn’t you have signed it earlier?’

‘They were from interstate, arrived late,’ he says.

‘Been drinking? I ask. ‘Spoil your appetite.’

‘Celebrating. You should drink more.’

‘I made a mousse.’

‘Flat again. Best to buy a cake.’

‘Do you mean I can’t cook?’

‘Not everything.’

‘You can’t cook at all.’

‘I can heat up pre-made meals.’

‘They’re not nutritious, and you overcook them.’

‘Your meals are cold.’

‘Because you come home late’

I heat tut-tutting and glance at the doorway leading to the dining room. My daughter and son-in-law are standing there. Their expressions are glum and judgemental.

Why? I think. ‘Now what?’ I say. ‘… Oh, I see.’

‘Walter dear, you look so tired. My darling, do sit down.’