One of the best TV shows of this or any other era is American Horror Story.
The current series is set in a witches’ coven in New Orleans starring a bunch of glamorous young ladies with superpowers, which include the ability to hear people’s thoughts, telekinesis and power to inflict pain on others by maiming themselves.
The only male character who lives there is a mute butler whose sole purpose in life is to do all their fetching and carrying. Any man who lives with a houseful of women will know just how he feels. I know I do.
Excuse me while I polish my halo but because yours truly has been handed the duties of cooking, washing, ironing, shopping, chauffeuring and now cleaning by our coven’s occasionally benevolent Supreme. The argument that the internet won’t read itself and my trainers won’t run around south Lancaster on their own fell on unsympathetic ears. Cook, wash, iron, shop, taxi and clean. Slave.
It’s a girls’ world alright and even though the only living soul in our house who shares an interest in Sky Sports is the nicer of our two cats (seriously, he’s transfixed by televised football) I wouldn’t have it any other way. Christmas is less than three weeks off and preparations are well underway.
Not so much the fun stuff like presents, grub and booze. No, this year daughter #1 wants us all to wear Christmas jumpers and has been to Primark to buy them. You might think you look like a character in the uber-cool Danish whodunit The Killing in your gaudy Fair Isle knitwear, but you don’t.
You look like an asylum seeker. And it itches like hell. And you’ve got to wear it without a word of complaint because your 14-year-old daughter says it wouldn’t be a proper Christmas .
Thankfully there has been a welcome distraction from Christmas in our family because the militarily precise breeding programme which has taken place every three-years since 1994 (honestly, you could line them up like Russian dolls) has produced another baby.
Not ours. Hell’s teeth, we’ve done our bit. At the end of last month my sister popped out 7lbs 15oz of feminine perfection. She’s a cutie and when she fills her nappy it is NEVER my turn to change it.