The Knackered Mother (knackeredus maternius) is most commonly seen in her natural habitat, the kitchen. Here, she slaves away putting food on the table for her children to flick all over the floor, occasionally falling silent to actually eat some of it. She exists on a diet of sandwich crusts, leftover fish fingers and mint kitkats with the odd half-cup of lukewarm tea if she’s lucky.
Dear Celebrity Masterchef, I thought I could do it. I thought I could go cold turkey, perhaps even use the time I used to spend with you doing something more productive. Perhaps take up the hem on the trousers I bought over a month ago, maybe finish the book I have been reading for the last two. Of course, I’d forgotten how seductive you are, with your cooking-with-medical-urgency theme tune, your big-swell music when you announce the finalists, your increasingly tenuous celebrity contestants (who I usually love by the end) and your shouty presenters that cry when they hit on a culinary revelation.