Spoilt Brat

It's July, which signals the annual move for my son, from one flat to another, in his University hometown, Bristol. He has already been a student for 5 years, it seems like 10. Once upon a time students were despatched with a bean bag, a saucepan, and a cookery book entitled "1001 ways with Jacket Potatoes". Not my boy. Like Mother like Son. Brought up by a Mother who preferred to do her weekly shop in Selfridges Food Hall, he regularly calls me for cooking tips. " Mum", he wails, "I'm rustling up a scallop and chorizo rissotto. Which rice should I use, Arboria or Carnaroli ?"

He has had flats in some of the most beautiful buildings in Bristol, 18th buildings with character, once occupied by the rich merchants. Student life is not what it used to be. The smug little gits ;-)

So the Jag is filled with his (duck down, he insists on it) duvets, speakers, laptops, vinyl, top end saucepans and woks, and bags upon bags of fresh laundry (I dipped out here, and rather sluttishly sent it to the local service wash). I note there are no work books; odd when he has 3 modules to resit next month.

Life is always a little more dull when Fauntleroy isn't around, but I shall look forward to the regular call with his cookery FAQ, "Mother - how long in the oven for a 1kg fillet of beef" (18 minutes darling, after searing, then rest for the same, and how the *!?$ can you afford that !)