Four-and-half-weeks until I need to put up with your micromanaging, toothless, infantile grin, your little screeches of delight and hearing you talk about yourself and your minion-husband in third person: “Grandma doesn’t like that”, “When Grandma and grandpa lived in Africa…” It’s creepy and weird and my children don’t understand it. Stop it.

You’re a legend in your own mind, but your stories about living in Africa are condescending and reek of colonialism.

You better not have planned yourself a cheap, subsidized holiday for next year by coming to stay with me. I’m sorry. You’re in for a shock. Not happening.

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