WAR IS PEACE, HEALTHY IS SICK

I break off from cooking supper, looking up the scientific definition of "adaptation" for Small Boy, feeding the dog, shoving the cat off the butter dish, hanging out the washing, booking train tickets for Husband and policing Daughter's use of Facebook to call the Aged Ps. I know I should not shoehorn this duty into the evening as it will only end in my becoming frustrated, but they called last night and I ignored the phone, so if I do not call tonight, they will start ringing every hour on the hour until I crack. I am sure they were trained in Extraordinary Rendition at their ante-natal classes.
I breathe deeply and dial.
Luckily Dad answers.
(He always puts on his I-used-to-be-a-lawyer voice when answering the phone, announcing his full name and reciting back his telephone number. I half expect him to advise me that before proceeding I should know that he will be charging me £500 for his time.)
"Hello, it's me," I mutter, my head in the oven. (I am still fussing over supper, not resorting to ending it all - yet).
"Ah! Hello, love!" Dad relaxes into Normal Human Mode. "I'll just get your mother--"
"NOOOOO!"
Too late. There is an ear-shattering clattering noise in my ear and then a grumpy, "Hello."
"Hi," I sigh.
"I want to talk to you about the summer," says Mother.
"I'm fine and how are you?" I say.
"I am not very well, as you know, and I am going to have an operation in the summer--"
"I thought that wasn't definite?" I cut in before I have to listen to all the details of what is going on Down There again.
"Well it may be definite, so I need to plan what is happening this summer just in case it is definite," Mother snaps.
"O-kaaay," I say. "Well, we were thinking of coming to see you at the end of July as usual--"
"That's my point. The end of July is terrible because I might be definitely having my operation."
"Right. Well, we could leave it until you know for sure?" I suggest.
"No, you can't do that!" Mother protests. "I want to see you!"
"Yes, that's why I'm suggesting we come and visit," I say.
"But if you come and visit and I'm having my operation, then I won't see you," Mother says.
Dad sniggers.
"Well, why don't we put the dates in the diary and then when you know whether or not you're going to be having an operation--"
"Which I might definitely be--"
"Then we can make some firm decisions."
"But I want to SEE YOU!" Mother wails.
Dad sniggers again.
I am beginning to feel out of my depth. Mother has perfected the art of doublethink to the point that I am no longer sure that we are conversant in the same language.
I am now beyond frustrated. I knew I should have listened to that little voice telling me not to call.

Quantitative Easing, or How To Get What You Really Want

Small Boy is sitting in the armchair in the kitchen reading Country Smallholdings magazine and humming the tune to "Crazy In Love" by Beyonce while tapping his foot vigorously to the beat.
I choose to ignore the choice of song, but am curious as to where he has got the magazine from. My son has always been an afficionado of the RSPB magazine and BBC Wildlife, but this is the first time Country Smallholdings has made an appearance in our house. I am a little worried to see he is flicking through articles about keeping pygmy goats. At least he has given up pestering me for terrapins, which was last week's craze.
"Where did you get that magazine from?" I ask casually.
"William," he answers, just as casually.
"Oh?"
I feel a stab of panic. William is much loved in our house and is Small Boy's best friend, but that does not lessen the murmurings of disquiet that accompany the mention of his name, paired as it usually is with some new hare-brained scheme to increase the animal population in our house. William's family have a smallholding which is, quite simply, the envy of Small Boy. It is an envy which consumes him. William has daily access to pigs, cows, ponies, chickens, quail, a Harris hawk, a cat and a dog. William has thus become the benchmark by which Small Boy measures our own animal husbandry, which of course pales in comparison.
"You know this Quality Veezin' they keep going on about," Small Boy says suddenly, breaking into my anxious thoughts.
My mind does a couple of backflips as it attempts to translate.
"Oh, you mean 'quantitative easing'?" I say, as the light dawns.
"That's the one," says Small Boy. "It's very interesting how the banks are going to be printing loads of new money notes, but what I want to know is--"
"Hang on!" I interrupt. "That's not quite what's happening."
"Yes it is," Small Boy contradicts me indignantly. "You said that the bank is going to Create More Money to Solve The Crisis. You said!" he protests. "And if they are going to do that, then I want to know if I can get a rise in my pocket money."
"No," I say.
"But! What! Hey! But that's not faaaaiiiiiir!" Small Boy wails. "If you are getting more money then why shouldn't I?"
"I am not getting more money! No one is. You see--" I begin.
"Well, what on earth is the point of printing more if no one is going to get any then?" says Small Boy with disgust.
"It's not as though you need any more, is it love?" I point out. "The last time you counted up your pocket money you seemed to be doing pretty well."
"But I don't have enough to buy what I really want, though!" he protests, waving the magazine at me ominously.
I peer anxiously over his shoulder at the pictures. "What exactly have you got your eye on?" I ask.
"Well, I think that if I just had another say, hundred pounds or so," he says carelessly, "I could afford one of these coops." He points to a luxury two-storey chicken house.
"I quite fancy that myself," I said, impressed. "I could use it as an office."
"Don't be stupid," he berates me with a withering look, "it's for Marans, obviously. 'Cept," he adds thoughtfully, "I don't really want Marans cos they're too big. But a chicken house like this one would fit hundreds of Pekins!" he brightens.
"No," I say firmly. "No more chickens."
I feel the three hens are living on borrowed time as it is. I had to prise Psycho Cat away from the edge of the run yesterday, as she was licking her lips and getting perilously close.
"All right then - what about an incubator?" Small Boy is not giving up easily tonight. "William says it's really easy to hatch your own eggs and then you get really really cute fluffy chicks!" he puts on his best pleading, baby voice in an attempt to appeal to my softer side.
"NO!" I am getting annoyed now. "I am not letting you hatch chicks and you know very well why not!"
"Is it because you don't want a cockerel?" Small Boy says. He is getting irritated now. "Well, all I can say is, you are not a very animal-minded person. Not like William's parents."
"Huh!" I bridle at this. I am the one who picks up the dead rodents The Cats bring home, I am the one who picks up the dog's poo, walks her, bathes her, takes her to the vet . . . But he has heard this all before and is not going to let me get a word in.
"Anyway," he says, defiantly. "It doesn't matter if we hatch a cockerel. There's an easy way to deal with it. William says."
"I should have known," I sigh. "I suppose William will give a good home to any cockerel we don't want, is that it?"
"No," says Small Boy simply. "But his dad will ring its neck for us."
There's no real answer to that, is there?