The G is on a diet . . .
This isn't a response to issues weight-related, or anything like that. It's more that her eating habits have become so ridiculous that something drastic had to be done.
I believe it's known as calling her bluff.
In recent days, the list of prohibited foodstuffs has grown, with baked beans and sausages becoming the latest things she says she no longer likes. The G, you'll remember, has a rule that nothing that has grown on a tree or a bush or in the ground (save, perhaps, the occasional potato) shall ever pass her lips.
Countless dinners having been dispatched to the bin in recent days, I've decided to act.
So, for the duration of this week, tea is going to be two fishfingers, a small potato (mashed) and a modest squeeze from the ketchup bottle.
The objectives are two-fold:
1) That she'll actually eat an entire evening meal (albeit one so lacking in taste, imagination or genuine nutritional benefit), ensuring that the time I spend in the kitchen can't be considered a complete waste.
2) That, in time, she'll become so sick-to-the-back-teeth of fishfingers that, once normal service resumes, she might, for once, agree to eat something else . . .