FRIDAY
In the spirit of new challenges, I’m having a go at making sourdough bread from a live starter. This morning, my neighbour kindly brings over a small pot of creamy-coloured gunk which apparently I have to ‘feed’. The husband reminds me that plants usually wither and die when left in my care, so he doesn’t rate its chances. Funny.
According to the internet, proper bakers give their sourdough starter a name, so I ask the children for suggestions – so far, they’ve only come up with rude ones.
We have a family debate about what will happen next, which gets quite heated. We pin our arguments on snippets picked up from the news, radio programmes and discussion forums of varied reliability. The husband is usually more positive in his outlook than me, but today he’s quite pessimistic; this throws me, so I get a bit snippy.
We discuss at length whether the 15-year-old can continue her socially distant meetings with the boy called Dom. We decide to allow it but keep a close eye on things. Spy on her, in other words.
At least they can’t get up to anything if they’re two metres apart.
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