Pancake Day

"I won't be here for Pancake Day," Husband announces. "I've got a work do."
"Oh." I feel my heart plummet into my boots. Husband always does the pancakes on Pancake Day.
"Never mind," I say, forcing a note of breeziness into my voice, "I'm sure we'll manage."
I had been looking forward to bingeing on a pile of butter-and-sugar-encrusted pancakes as I had rashly announced that I would be giving up butter for Lent, having gone a bit overboard on eating and drinking over the half-term break. I can't see this happening now that I am going to have to cook them myself. The last time I cooked pancakes they ended up looking more like scrambled eggs.

I think about it all day, check and double-check that I have the required ingredients (even though they are not exactly exactly exotic and are generally to be found in most store cupboards).
I make the batter nice and early to allow it to rest.
Then, at the alloted hour, I heat the oil in the pan according to the recipe. I take a deep breath, ladle some batter into the pan and . . .
"Bugger it. Scrambled eggs again."
"What's that, Mum?" asks Small Boy.
"It's, er, it's the first pancake. The first one always goes like that. You have to wait for the second pancake. That's the one I'll be giving you," I said. I do not meet his eye as I say this.
I put a little more oil in the pan, ladle in more batter (which is looking exactly as it should: "thin and runny" according to the appetising description in the recipe).
"Shit. Not even scrambled this time. Wrinkled."
"What?!" cries Small Boy.
"Listen, I have had a very - tiring day," I start, then turn blushing to the pan, muttering more curses under my breath.
Small Boy recognises the signs and says gamely, "It's OK. I'll have that one. I'm sure it will taste fine."
Bless his little heart. I scrape the crinkly mess on to his plate and he slathers it in Golden Syrup and Nutella.
"Yum!" he says with feeling.
The next ten pancakes are no better than the first two. Both children are too wary of the thunderous looks I am giving the frying pan to venture any comment other than "Yum!" as they scoff shrivelled, messed-up pancake after shrivelled messed-up pancake.
Eventually even they give up waiting for a miracle and leave the room as I, fuming, prepare a new batch of batter.

I sit down to a pile of pancakes at half past nine, having finally perfected the art long after the children have bathed and gone to bed.
"What on earth have you been doing?" Husband cries as he comes into a kitchen heaped with dirty frying pans, scraped plates, squeezed lemons and a wife with a greasy smear of butter and sugar around her mouth.
"I," I announce with some triumph. "Have been making pancakes. And it has been very hard work."
Husband splutters with barely concealed mirth. "Pancakes, hard work?" he scoffs. Then he catches a certain steeliness in my eyes. "I'll, er, just go and have a shower then," he murmurs, backing out of the room.
You do that, I think. And next time don't bloody go out anywhere on Pancake Day!