The Singer managed to root out two slices of bread.
Her: 'Mum, you know when you make toast, which one's the grill?'
Me: 'The one at the end.'
Her: 'Which end?'
Me: 'The end near the sink.'
There was a pause.
Her: 'Mum! It's not working.'
Me: 'You did light it didn't you?'
Her: 'Light it?'
Me: 'You did light the gas?'
There was no reply. I ran downstairs and was overcome by what I imagine a British Nuclear Fuels plant smells like on a bad day. I opened the back door and waved a tea towel around for a bit. Head in hands, I tried to explain, as patiently as possible, that gas alone will not turn bread into toast. To a fourteen year old.
The Football Fanatic arrived home at this point and asked if someone had been using a belt sander. I explained what had happened. The Singer took offence at her disdain and reminded her of the very similar occasion at Nana's. (This was henceforth referred to as 'The Fireball Incident' - unfortunately, I cannot give any details or publish what my mother actually said. Suffice to say that singed eyebrows were involved. My mother's, when she intervened.)
Anyway, all this preamble is leading somewhere. This lot may be highly intelligent, but they obviously do not have one ounce of common sense between them. Have I done too much for them? Should I have been the sort of mother who had 'chore rotas' and no watching the television till it's all done? My own take on it has always been that they've got years in front of them to cook and clean and wash, so they might as well enjoy it while they can. But now I'm beginning to wonder. Any advice?
(The Fixer would like me to point out that this post does not apply to her. She can cook a three course meal for seven people and wash up afterwards.)