I know that Auntie May can be rather prissy about her cooking – with rules and regulations on quantities, proportions, when to chiffonade her vegetables and so on – but she didn't come up the fjord on a banana boat, and while her recipe books, her own handwritten ones, have become palimpsest with overwriting, usually when she has decided that Eve's Pudding has become passé, or Duck with Orange is really too twee, so they were rubbed out and replaced with something Vegan until that bored her, but she knew how to feed an army, which was just as well when my cousin Pru Montelimart (nee Goldfish) and her eleven daughters: Lola, Pola, Cola, Nola, Rola (aged 16) Dara, Hara, Kara, Mara, Bara (aged 14) and Joan (aged 12) turned up at the house a few days after my operation; they brought bunches of grapes, bottles of Lucozade and twelve different magazines for me to while away my convalescence, which was thoughtful – if not imaginative; but I dare say that Pru doesn't really have enough time for imagination, having had to provide shelter, food and clothing for her brood single-handedly since Gustave did a bunk before Joan was born – he probably assumed it would be another multiple birth and felt he couldn't cope with another five girls – which, as he was not much use with the first ten was rather perceptive of him, but don't get me started . . . . .