You, me and Martha the sardine

Francis has recently returned from a solo trip to Cyprus where he has delivered a stirring speech to 1,500 delegates about the virtues of sardines.

"Were they moved?" I ask.

"The delegates - definitely. There's a wealth of emotion in Omega 3 if you know how to tap it. If you mean the sardines, I think so, but it's hard to tell what their little fishy faces are expressing. Though I'm working on it. 'Read your sardine's mind,' could be a surprise Christmas best seller if I play my cards right."

Overwhelmed, as he always and touchingly is to see his lovely family again, he says, "We never go on proper holidays as a family."

"We do," I say. "Just not together, except when we're visiting your parents."

"I think it would be good for us," he says, looking as misty-eyed as a sardine with conjunctivitis (or so I imagine - the scientific research to back this up lags way behind).

"Why don't we have lunch and think about it," I say. "Deborah, can you call the others and tell them the meal is ready."

Deborah, who is in the kitchen with us, raises her head from her drawing, yells, "Beth, Leo - FOOD," at the top of her voice and then, satisfied with this tangible contribution to family communication, lowers it again and carries on writing 'Kill, kill, kill,' next to a picture of an amiable-looking farmer.

"Deborah," I say, "I can shout, too."

"Well, why make me do it, then?" she says.

"That's not the point. I need you to go out of the room, find them, tell them it's food and make sure they've heard you."

"Oh, all right," she says, disgusted, and gets up.

Ten minutes later, Leo saunters in. We are all eating. "If you're this late again," I say, "I'm going to give your food away."

"Who are you going to give it to?" he asks, interestedly.

"The poor."

"What did the poor ever do for you?" he says.

I look at Francis. "You know," he says, pouring us both a glass of wine. "What say we try and go away together, leaving the children and homicidal thoughts at home."

"What about the sardines?" I ask.

"I've met a particuarly attractive one called Martha who I thought we could just scoop up on the way but - oh, hell, no. No sardines, either."

"Oh, all right then," I say. I'd like to blush prettily at this point but, raddled old hag that I am, simply rush upstairs, apply blusher lavishly to my cheeks, the bath, the cat and a couple of residual slugs. Sporting my new Deaths Head meets Maybelline look I rush downstairs again.

Francis looks at me, then away. "Oh, Martha, my love," I think I hear him mutter, as he fetches a second helping. But there again, perhaps not.