4
Aimee’s parents’ house. Carmarthen. Sunday lunch. Favourite meal of the week for most.
Not here, and not me—or anyone else with taste buds.
Swallowing the un-mashed mashed potato, I give a painful smile to Aimee’s dad, Byron. He returns a smile and continues to chew on his lamb chop, clearly struggling to bite through it like a dog with a chew-toy.
Poor bastard. He’s got to live with Lynne’s God-awful cooking every night of the week. And it’s not as if they have the odd night out at a restaurant, or a quick trip somewhere for lunch. This is it for them. Both retired. Both content with staying home all year round. They may go to Scotland or over to Ireland once or twice a year, but they always take the caravan.
Different place. Same chef.
“I’m done, Mum,” Aimee says, pushing the hal
