We’re in Umhlanga and sitting around our lounge watching the elimination phase of Master Chef Australia. I’m loving it. Even though Prince No. 1 isn’t. I’m loving the Australian accents. I’m loving that they’re squeamish over cooking pigeon. I’m loving watching Joanne the 37-year-old mum who cooks with her family photos above her and her husband speaking in her mind as she bawks before gutting the pigeon, ‘Just get in there.’

And they’re in London, having just been in Paris. I’d love to do that. Of course I’d never make it. Considering that I can burn my beef┬ákebabs with the best of the char cooks. (We won’t mention the nuts again.) So Master Chef isn’t an option. Ah well. As long as my little family are happy with the cooking that’s been going on in the teeny-weeny kitchen here. You can smell the steaks I cooked in the oven yesterday down the hallway. (I forgot to bring the steak frying pan so the roasting pan had to do. I’d do well in how to improvise a kind of edible meal with the least ingredients and utensils.) The smoke still lingered this morning as we woke up.

Anyhow I’m enjoying watching a bit of mindless TV – which I never do. I was fascinated by the SA adverts because I haven’t watched adverts in years. (Bit of a sad state of TV affairs I suppose – but I usually prefer a book.) And it’s so nice to take my mind off things. Being on holiday with the kids and being on call 24 hours a day – with a three-year old boss who shouts from the bathroom, ‘Mummy come wipe my bum’ – he’s on a bum wiping strike. The problem is that it’s been for over a month now. We’re reaching a compromise.

It is quite nice sitting all around after supper (where we did sit and say our best and worst things of the day ie. talk) watching Master Chef wondering who’s going to win. I’m going for the mum.

Actually I think I’d prefer to be a judge on Master Chef – less anxiety than cooking. Can you imagine if your family sat around and judged what you cooked every night. I think I’d permanently quit from the kitchen. With comments such as ‘I think it’s a bit too salty’ and the way they eye the food as it comes…. no thank you.

Ahhh I hope the mum wins. I love the way she speaks it so reminds me of home… I can’t bear the way the judges smell each mouthful as they taste it… this is really nerve-racking. Finally they like it a lot – they love the merelles – what is merelles? I’m sure that I’ve spelt that wrong. Oh God they don’t like the onion – it throws the whole dish off…

And it’s…… IT guy or Mum??? Eyes down it’s not the mum! Ah well… We can’t all win.

At least her family gets to eat her yummy, gourmet food. More than my Princes can say… although I do give them Lindt chocolate to dip into rooibos tea after supper. I think that’s pretty cool. It could get points on Master Mum. Now that would be a fun show to watch. Although I don’t fancy mums being judged closely, with judges saying ‘That tone of voice was a bit too loud.’ ‘That game was fun but not educational enough’. On seconds thoughts no Master Mum show.