Many, many moons ago I learned a salutary lesson: never try out a new recipe on guests, despite how well you know them. In fact, definitely NOT if you know them. If you’re a reasonable cook, folk turn up expecting a decent spread. Even in these latest diet-days, guests don’t want a disaster; especially if you’ve asked them to bring their own offerings. They’ll doubtless rock up with a pack of crisps hoping to contribute a meagre appetiser to your latest culinary delight before diving into the feast with gusto.

The second lesson, which comes with hindsight, is don’t forget the first. Age is no excuse.

You may recall from the previous Weasel that I’m now in possession of the thin person’s Mediterranean cookbook. There are 11 due on Saturday so I thought I’d make two dishes. And as daughter number two and small grandson are coming at early doors tomorrow, best to be prepared. The planned day (today) is thwarted by a ghastly night: early to bed and wide awake by midnight; and never more to sleep. Thursday is ruinous with yours truly being incapable of anything apart from a half-hearted attempt at cleaning the joint up.

Fortuitously, I did the food shopping yesterday so, very slowly, I try to construct a vegetarian, syn-free cannelloni at 5.30 am when I’ve given up all hope of ever sleeping again. A food mixer is involved. I have such an implement but I can’t remember the last time I used it. On retrieving it from the tea-towel cupboard, I find it to be in such a state of horrendous decrepitude that even I, fumbling around in the accompaniment of the shipping forecast, am unable to bring myself to engage with it: Viking, Forties, Dogger – I put the whole lot in the dishwasher on a quick ‘glass wash’ and retire to the dining room with a cup of coffee and today’s Solitaire challenges.

The mixer is sparkling but still doesn’t work. It’s got a red flashing light. I don’t like red flashing lights. I get the other bit of machinery I possess, a liquidiser, and try to pulp some spinach and cottage cheese. There’s a burning smell so I take a shower and leave it to cool down. Next is the problem of how to get the sort-of-pulped mess into the cannelloni shells. The recipe suggests an icing implement. Not being a baker, I don’t have one of these so I decide to start on dish number two: Moroccan meat balls, while I think about my next move. Intermittently, I try to telephone my club to say I won’t be attending the over-sixties aerobics class this morning due to being incapacitated. I can’t get through as several other elderly beings are busy trying to think of novel excuses. I quickly hoover the house, get into a dreadful state trying to erect the travel cot  and rebuild my face.

I feel as if I’m gaining. The spinach and fat-free cottage cheese stuffing is ready if only I can work out how to get it into the cannelloni tubes. The Moroccan fish balls are resting in the fridge. I look in the diary and discover I’m supposed to be at the hygienist. Half an hour later and sixty quid lighter I visit the local hardware stall and ask how I’m supposed to get the Moroccan fish business into the cannelloni tubes. ‘That’s women’s work’, says man in charge and I end up buying some contraption with 83 different implements. ‘You can make a cake now’ says woman who deserves to be married to that prat.

I just want to sleep. All day, I’ve been thinking about that time when I can catch up on the lost sleep. I even changed the sheets so that my afternoon catch-up would be in crisp, clean linen. And what am I doing? I’m spooning spinach and spices and cottage cheese into a redundant liquidiser that has finally said ‘I’m NOT a mixer’. There is green puke-like mess all over the cupboards, on the floor and I’m covered in the stuff. Meanwhile, the sauce for the Moroccan meat balls is so hot that the kitchen smells as if it’s on fire. It’s a disaster. And I don’t care. People will bring wine and all will be well.