Mum and dad up for Sunday roast. The temperature is now down to one degree Kelvin, so their trip to the playground with Lily and Daisy ends up in Sainsburys. I plough on with the pork, contemplating whether to add a rough puff pastry since I am now a master of the art. Dad and mum come back with their frozen grandchildren and dad falls asleep snoring like a foghorn with a glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape balanced precariously on his tummy.
The roast is a success…no pie crust necessary.