After years of countless battles to safeguard her marked territory of the 10sqm kitchen, The Mother has finally agreed to let me use the kitchen to whip up a meal for four. (Housewives and their 'territory'...)

The Best Friend, now The Brother's tutor, is swinging by my place this weekend and I always love the combination of friends, family and a lovely meal. I can't wait to show off my culinary skills. (Or rather the lack of it)

Usually The Mother would moan and grumble whenever I suggest putting Jamie Oliver's recipes to the test. She dreads the thought of me mixing up the salt and pepper, spilling the sugar all over and cutting myself and smudge my blood onto the chopping board. Basically she hates cleaning up after me. Actually I think her OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) is working its way. She would re-wash every plate and cup after me. She would re-arrange all the utensils after me. Then she would re-wipe every corner of the kitchen counter after me.

I know her too well. So much so I told all my friends who visit to just leave it and go watch TV because 'my mum will re-wash everything'. Sometimes I would stand back and enjoy watching my friends turn up the tap and try their best to soap up the dishes. Then I turn to The Mother and observe her changing expression as she looks on.

Friend: Alright I can do this without fumbling with the sponge and crashing the plates. Yikes I don't even do this at home!

The Mother: Can he/she just put down the plates and exit my kitchen?

Friend: Damn it! Did I squeeze too much washing soap? Will auntie think I'm wasteful?

The Mother: Dear, I know you're practising on your very good manners but really, it's okay. You can bug off now.

Friend: Angie is asking me to stop washing. Shit, can I really stop?

I love soaking up the telepathy conversational atmosphere between the two non-speaking parties. (I truly believe it happens) Except this Saturday, I have promised to wash ALL the dishes in return for the use of the kitchen. A price to pay.