KEEPING UP WITH THE JONESES

                     (spacing is odd (double)  when pasted - no time to correct, shouldn't be like that)

Despite the fact that Phil had had a bit of a run-in with the law, Schumacher had an in-growing beak and Sharon's latest piercing appeared to have gone gangrenous, Sheila Jones was determined that this was going to be the best Christmas ever.

 

"This is going to be the best Christmas ever!" she informed Ron as she dished up her latest culinary experiment.

 

"Oh yeah?" said Ron, dubiously eyeing his plate of pink soup. There seemed to be lumps of marshmallow floating forlornly in its depths.

          

He warily poked one with his fork. It disintegrated instantly. "What's this, then?"

                                               

"Boeuf bourgignon," said Sheila indignantly, "It's one I got from Anthony Worrel-Thompson."

                                               

"Oh, right. Beef stew," said the long-suffering Ron with relief, sopping up greasy liquid with a crust.

 

Sheila ignored him. "I'm going to cook," she continued, "the best Christmas dinner on the whole estate. I've been watching Delia. We'll have a slap-up feed!"

 

Ron masticated bravely, Phil choked on a bit of gristle, Sharon scratched her navel and Schumacher, zooming around the room in ever-decreasing circles squawked in horror, spraying birdseed.

 

Sheila's efforts in the kitchen were legendary.

 

"But Ma," groaned Phil, "Your cooking's bleedin' awful. You even burn boiled eggs!"

 

"Yeah," giggled Sharon, "And what about the time you put that cayenne pepper in the icing, thinking it was food colouring? Dad nearly pegged it..."

 

Ron, the lucky survivor of that unfortunate mistake, mouth full however and thus unable to comment, nodded vigorously in agreement.

                                               

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," said Sheila, stung. She whisked a deflated souffle out of the oven and plonked it unceremoniously on the table where it sat like a crusty pancake.

                                                   

Cookery was Sheila's latest passion.

 

She'd done the decorating bit (colour-washed lime and orange living-room walls), the DIY (a wardrobe bearing a close resemblance to the leaning tower of Pisa) and the gardening (wilting basil, thyme and chives on the window-sill). She was in need of a new challenge.

 

She'd found it in the shape of Ainsley, Delia, Anthony, Jamie, Gary and all the other miraculous and multi-talented creatures capable of whipping up gourmet delights using no ingredients whatsoever in the space of twenty minutes.

 

Sheila was hooked. 'I can do that,' she thought, 'Piece of cake,' and she chortled appreciatively at her own wit.

 

The fact that her deep-fried rocket ended up burnt to a cinder and could easily have been mistaken for the contents of Ron's overflowing ashtray and that she'd foolishly poached the monkfish with mint believing it to be rosemary ('Rosemary goes wonderfully with fish...' one of the Fat Ladies had authoritatively informed her), didn't deter Sheila in the least.

                                          

The Two Fat Ladies had been on of Sheila's favourites. Being of a similar size, she felt a close affinity and their ingredients had the added advantage of coinciding comfortingly with her own. Pounds of lard, pints of double cream and gallons of goose fat were Sheila's idea of heaven.

 

 

'One should only eat yoghurt if one's poorly, or if one doesn't eat meat. Nothing beats real cream...' quoth Jennifer, waving a wooden spoon at an invisible vegetarian audience reprovingly. Sheila, busily stirring lumpy custard containing half a pint of the stuff, couldn't agree more.

 

Her new hobby had other distinct advantages, too.

 

When that copper had called for instance, to say Phil had been caught outside the fish and chip shop smoking a joint, Sheila had been able to offer him a plate of her freshly baked scones, thus considerably reducing the possibility of prosecution.

 

Phil, highly impressed and not a little grateful, began taking a lively interest in her gastronomic efforts.

 

She had even, on occasion, allowed him to help with the baking until one day she'd caught him crumbling a sticky, brown substance into the cake mix, after which she'd banished him from the kitchen forever.

 

"Aw, but Ma," Phil said, crestfallen, "It's not as if you'd even taste it. Anyway, I bet that Jamie Oliver bloke smokes..."

 

"Smokes it, maybe. Eats it, no," said Sheila, horrified, "Whatever would your dad say?"

 

The day before Christmas they all sat down in front of the telly and waited for instructions from Delia. Sheila had notepad and biro at the ready, Ron opened a can of Special Brew, Sharon rubbed ointment on her infected piercing and Phil lit up a spliff.

 

Schumacher, beak tucked safely under his wing feathers, perched on the box and blinked wearily. He'd witnessed dead birds before, usually served up steaming, glazed, crackling and surrounded by roast potatoes. The whole affair depressed him dreadfully.

 

"I'd like to show you three kinds of stuffing," began Delia, encircled proudly by pristine pots and sporting a spotless pinny.

 

Sharon snickered audibly and Ron muttered something that sounded very much like "Wouldn't mind three kinds of stuffing meself..."

 

"Shut up," said Sheila crossly and turned up the volume.

 

"This is a 14 pound turkey..." continued Delia, lovingly stroking a gigantic, pasty, headless fowl with one hand and yanking giblets from its depths with the other.

                                                

Schumacher screeched and hopped under the sofa, faint with fright.

 

"Blimey," said Ron, impressed, "She don't 'alf make it look easy, don't she?".

 

He opened another Special Brew in salute, as Delia bustled about basting, boiling, peeling and poking simultaneously.

 

Sheila groaned as if in agony.

                                            

"Now we don't want a dry turkey, do we?" smiled Delia, cool and unruffled as an early spring morning. She shoved sausage meat up the hapless bird's nether regions with remarkable finesse.

 

"Too bloody right," grinned Phil, giving her the finger.

 

Delia zipped around the kitchen tirelessly glazing parsnips, stirring mincemeat, rolling pastry, reducing sauces and decorating cakes with sprigs of unidentifiable green stuff.

 

Sheila was exhausted.

 

Now that the worst appeared to be over, Schumacher crept out from under the sofa and resumed his perch on top of the telly, feeling slightly less queasy.

 

"What's the matter, love?" asked Ron as Delia, every hair in place and surrounded by a resplendent repast large enough to feed Brixton nick, sipped a well-earned glass of wine.

                                         

"It's no good," said Sheila in despair, "I can't do it. The kitchen's too small, so's the oven and I haven't got nearly enough saucepans. It'd take me a month of Sunday's to get all that together..."

 

"Looks like fish and chips for Christmas dinner again, then." muttered Phil ungratefully, not yet having forgiven Sheila for banning his magic ingredient from the cake mix.

                                            

"Ooh, look Ma," giggled Sharon gleefully, pointing first at the unfortunate budgie and then at the television screen. "Schumacher's gone and shat all over Delia's dinner...!"