After a desultory stab at lunch, (I wonder why?) and a small eternity of dinosaur programmes, William reminds me I promised we’d make gingerbread men. Small inward sigh.
Out with Mary Berry and while we are looking at the recipe, he spots mini iced buns which we make. Weigh, tip, crack the egg (favourite bit), measure and mix. Put the mini cake cases in the tin and, using a tiny spoon, fill them – I encourage him to use a clean finger to scrape the mix off the spoon, turning a blind eye to copious licking.
Into the oven and out: not bad considering the sketchy weighing.
From this point I was on my own making glacé icing in a random quantity way. He spent the next hour pouring and whisking and scooping just as the books tell you pre -schoolers do. “Tum de Tum … mmm … I am making nice drinks for you and grandad and I need lots more water.”
And one for Tommy.
This involves a lot of sucking and dribbling out of the juice already in the cup. I ask “What does Mummy think about dribbling and spitting?”