“Reader, my heart is in my mouth”

T’S my mother’s birthday. She’s trying on a wig in my brother’s kitchen. Not because she wants to. My brother found the wig in his children’s toy box and wants us all to try it on. My siblings and I know the look in my brother’s eye from childhood; rolling over like a dog is our only option. He’s not made it to CEO for nothing.

Right now, what my mum wants is to serve up a celebratory lasagne; she wears a flustered expression and gingham oven gloves which she waves furiously at my brother in protest.

But it’s an unequal battle: my mother is 4ft 11, and my brother, a six foot Yogi Bear, bats the gloves out of the way, looming over the top of my mother’s head with the wig.