Pan-handling

This weekend my lovely younger brother and I visited the delectable Wide in his nest of comfy sofadom. (The new sofa is a little like sitting on a slightly melty giant chocolate marshmallow. Without having to wash afterwards of course.)

After watching a brilliant group of prodigious school-kids play Funk-Indian-Jazz fusion at the Symphony Hall, we went home and had a lazy takeaway pizza, watched comedy and played x-box. I could get used to being a boy. If that's what boys do, of course.

In the morning, we were woken to the smell of frying eggy bread as my brother embarked on his premier culinary masterpiece. (I say this because omelettes are the second thing he learned to cook. Then apple crumble. That's it.) He was doing very well- until, of course, he dropped the pan on the floor- flattening it on one side. This wouldn't be that bad... except that this pan was the joyous pan of great expense (which had not even known the touch of the rough side of a sponge scourer... ['no! use the soft bit!']) brought by Wide's parents to replace the pan which little brother flattened on his previous visit. Visits=2. Non-spherical pans=2. He can't do it with ours, it's made of cast iron...

Other than that, the weekend passed smoothly, and all departed refreshed and on good terms. Huzzah.