Chapter Twenty-EightSundays mean roast dinners. Well, they did before the announcement. A massive chunk of hot chicken or beef, peas and carrots, crunchy potatoes, gravy. Yorkshires from the packet. Mum’s done a few roasts since, but they’ve always been so much fancier. She makes everything from scratch, spends hours ‘seasoning’ and ‘flavouring’ with weird herbs and spices. The veg and Yorkshires don’t come from the freezer anymore: she makes and prepares them from scratch. Basically, it’s another opportunity for her to hide in the kitchen. And today’s no different.
‘When will it be ready?’ I can’t help asking. It’s almost 6 pm and I’m bloody starving. It makes me ten-times hungrier when I can smell it all cooking for hours.
‘Five more minutes!’ Mum calls from behind the fridge. ‘Go and
