9st 5 (hideous instant fat production after lard-smeared parental Sunday lunch), cigarettes 17 (emergency), incidents during parental lunch suggesting there is any sanity or reality remaining in life 0.

8 a.m. Hangover is at last beginning to clear. Massive relief to be back in own home where am adult lord of castle instead of pawn in other people's games. Decided was no real way out of Mum's lunch yesterday, but all the way up the motorway to Grafton Underwood could feel sick coming up in my throat. Village looked surreally idyllic, trimmed with daffodils, conservatories, ducks etc. and people clipping hedges for all the world as if life were easy and peaceful, disaster had not happened, and there was such a thing as God.

"Oh hello, darlings Hakuna Matata. Just back from the Co-op," mum said bustling me through into the kitchen. "Short of peas! I'm just going to play this answeringphone back,'

Sat down nauseously while the answerphone boomed out, and Mum crashed around turning on gadgets, which ground and screamed in already-painful head.

"Pam," went the answerphone. "Penny here. You know that chap who lives up round the corner from the garage? Well, he's committed suicide because of the noise from the clay-pigeon shooting. It's in the Kettering Examiner. Oh and I meant to say, can Merle put a couple of dozen mince pies in your freezer while they've got the gas board in?"

"Hello, Pam! Margo! On the scrounge! Have you got a six-inch Swiss roll tin I can borrow for Alison's twentyfirst?"

I stared wildly round the kitchen, crazed at the thought of the different worlds that would berevealed by playing back people's answerphone tapes. Maybe someone should do it as an installation at the Saatchi Gallery. Mum was clattering about in the cupboards then dialled a number. "Margo. Pam. I've got a sponge ring tin if that's any good? Well, why don't you use a Yorkshire pudding tin and just line the bottom with a bit of greaseproof paper?"

"Hello, hello, bomdibombom,, said Dad, pottering into the kitchen. "Does anybody know the postcode for Barton Seagrave? Do you think it's KT4 HS or L? Ah, Bridget, welcome to the trenches, World War Three in the kitchen, Mau Mau in the garden."

"Colin, will you tip that oil out of the chip pan?" said Mum. "Geoffrey says when you've brought it up to a high temperature ten times it should be thrown away. By the way, Bridget, I've bought You some talc." She handed me a lilac Yardley's bottle with a gold top.

"Er, why?" I said, taking hold of it gingerly. "Well! It keeps you nice and fresh, doesn't it?"

Grrr. Grrrr. The whole thought-groove was just so transparent. Mark had gone out with Rebecca because ... "Are you saying I smell?" I said.

"No, darling." She paused. "It's always nice to keep nice and fresh, though, isn't it?"

"Afternoon, Bridget!" It was Una appearing as if from nowhere with a plate of boiled eggs. "Pam! I forgot to tell you, Bill's trying to get the council to skim his drive because they didn't grate the top off it and that's why they've got potholes, so Eileen said will you tell them the water used to run down from your drive until they put a grate in?"

Was all gibberish. Gibberish. Felt like a patient in a coma whom nobody thought could hear anything.

"Come on, Colin, where's that Spam? They're going to be here in a moment."

"Who?" I said suspiciously.

"The Darcys. Una, pop some salad cream and paprika on those eggs, will you?"

"The Darcys? Mark's parents? Now? Why?"

Just then, the doorbell - which plays the entire tune of a town-hall clock - started chiming out.

"We are the elders of the tribe!" twinkled Mum, taking off her pinny. "Come on, everyone, galvanize!"

"Where's Wellington?" I hissed at Mum.

"Oh, he's out in the garden practising his football! He doesn't like these sit-down lunches having to yaketty yak to us all."

Mum and Una dashed off and Dad patted my arm. "Forward to the breach," he said.

Followed him into the swirly-carpet-and-ornamentland of the lounge, wondering whether I had the strength and control of my limbs to bolt and deciding I didn't. Mark's mum and dad and Una and Geoffrey were standing in an awkward circle each holding a glass of sherry. "OK, love," said Dad. "Let's get you a drink."

"Have you met ... ?" He gestured to Elaine. "Do you know, my dear, I am sorry, I've known you for thirty years and I've completely forgotten your name."

"So how's that son of yours?" Una bludgeoned in.

"My son! Well, he's getting married, you know!" said Admiral Darcy, a genial bellower. The room suddenly went blotchy. Getting married?

"Getting married?" said Dad, holding my arm, as I tried to control my breathing.

"Oh I know, I know," said Admiral Darcy cheerily. "There's no keeping up with any of these young ones any more: married to someone one minute, off with someone else the next! Isn't that right, m'dear?" he said, patting Mark's mother on the bottom.

"I think Una was asking about Mark, not Peter, darling," she said, with a flash of understanding in my direction. "Peter is our other son out in Hong Kong. He's getting married in June. Now come along, can't one of you chaps find Bridget a drink? They're all mouth and no trousers, aren't they?" she said, with a sympathetic look.

Somebody get me out of here, I thought. I don't want to be tortured. I want to lie on the bathroom floor with my head near the toilet bowl like normal people.

"Would you like one of these?" said Elaine, holding out a silver case full of Black Sobranies. "I'm sure they're death on a stick but I'm still here at sixty-five."

"Right, come along and sit down, everyone!" said Mum, swirling in with a plate of liver sausage, "Oof." She made a great show of coughing and fanning the air and said icily, "No smoking at table, Elaine."

I followed her into the dining room where beyond the French windows Wellington was playing an astonishingly accomplished game of keepy-uppy in a sweatshirt and a pair of blue silky shorts.

"There he goes. Keep it up, lad," chortled Geoffrey, looking out of the window, jiggling his hands up and down in his pockets. "Keep it up."

We all sat down and stared at each other awkwardly. It was like a pre-wedding get-together for the happy couple and both sets of parents except that the groom had run off with someone else two nights before.

"So!" said Mum. "Salmon, Elaine?" "Thank you," said Elaine.

"We went to Miss Saigon the other night!" Mum began with dangerous brightness.

"Baah! Musicals. Can't bloody stand 'em, load of bloody ponces," muttered Admiral Darcy as Elaine served him a piece of salmon.

"Well, we enjoyed it" said Mum. "Anyway..."

I looked frantically out of the window for some sort of inspiration and saw Wellington looking at me. "Help," I mouthed. He nodded towards the kitchen and disappeared,

"Standing around with their legs apart bellowing," roared the Admiral, a man after my own heart. "Now Gilbert and Sullivan. HMS Pinafore, that's a different thing."

"Excuse me a moment," I said, and slipped out, ignoring Mum's furious stare.

Dashed into the kitchen to find Wellington already there. I slumped against the fridge freezer.

What?" he said, looking at my eyes intently. "What is wrong?"

"She thinks she's one of the elders of the tribe," I whispered. "She's taking on Mark's parents, you know Mark, who we saw. . ."

He nodded. "I know all about this."

"What have you been saying to her? She's trying to engineer some powwow about him seeing Rebecca as if. . ."

Just then the kitchen door burst open.

"Bridget! What are you doing in here? Oh." Spotting Wellington, Mum rather stopped in her tracks.

"Pamela?" said Wellington. "What is happening?"