Pink is the colour of my return. I came home to a kitchen table which has been tinted a lovely shade of deep rose pink. My six-year-old said: "You like pink. Don't you, mummy?" I looked at the table, which was once my grandfather's. It is oak, you can see the grain through its pink glaze. I looked at the carpet in the kitchen of our rented house. Also pink. A "no getting away from it" shade of pink. A "I hope you are not expecting to keep your deposit" shade of pink. "We were playing at being master chefs," the six-year-old continued. "We made bubbles." He giggled. He kept watching me.
The master chefs knew what they were doing. They tipped red, blue and yellow food dye into a bowl along with honey, syrup (maple), curry powder(madras), rice(brown), pasta (quills), ketchup(Heinz), baking powder, bicarbonate of soda and a bottle of vinegar(malt). We have peformed a less ambitious variant on this experiment in the garden as mummy explained the nature of a chemical reaction and the creation of a gas. At least, she pointed and said: "Look." During the master chef extravaganza, in the kitchen laboratory, Daddy was upstairs, trying to get the baby to go to sleep . "You know that story of the magic porridge pot," he said. "It was like that. But worse."
I am trapped. I have encouraged scientific experiments. I have banned TV. I have left Daddy in charge. "You do like it don't you mummy?" asked my six-year-old Heston Blumenthal again, anxious now. I caught back a sigh. I nodded. Slowly. "Pink is my very favourite colour."