I’m out in the kitchen making dinner. Abel is on the phone to his mother in the next room, and I can hear him through the door:

“I’d better go, Mum; Haron’s cooking, I need to give her a hand.”

I wonder briefly why he thinks I need help stirring curry that’s come out of a jar; surely I’m not that inept.

Everything is explained when he strides into the room, yanks down my slightly-too-large tracksuit bottoms along with my knickers, and gives me several firm, crisp smacks. I hold on to the stirring spoon to keep myself from ending up face-first in the bubbling curry.

“Is that your understanding of giving me a hand?” I ask, pulling my pants back up.

“Yeah. What, did you think I was going to help you?”