Sunday 5th December 1993 Sunday lunch 13:10

“I’ll have that roast potato if you are not going to eat it, Daphne.” Before Mum had a chance to answer, Gran reached over and pierced the last potato with her fork. It was large, golden, crispy specimen that both Dad and I already had designs on.
Gran smiled at us and took a crunchy bite.
Dad made no attempt to hide his annoyance. “You seem to be making splendid progress with that stomach of yours, Doreen. I am sure you’ve eaten more than me, today.”
“Well, as you know Desmond, my gastroscopy was almost entirely normal. There was only the tiniest hint of gastritis.”
“You didn’t need any treatment then?”
“No.”
“And, all the symptoms have gone?”
“Yes.” Gran looked pleased.
“Even that gnawing emptiness?”
“Everything cleared up the day after.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised, Desmond.”
“I just find it quite remarkable, Doreen, that’s all. You’d had those symptoms for at least three months and they disappeared straight after the gastroscopy.”
“Well, once I knew that there was nothing much causing them, they all went. I don’t think I would expect anything else.” Gran gave Dad a condescending look and took another bite of the potato.

Mum’s roast potatoes.