January 25: Pie squared

Now I know that Bump has survived the surgery, I am trying to get used to the idea that, sooner or later, I will be a mother and, by the looks of things, a single one at that.
I feel very unprepared. Where is the manual? What do mothers need to do? What do they need to know?
I trawl my brain and think of two things. One, they should be able to sew. Two, cook.
The first one – no chance. That’s what Grandma’s for.
The second –
I decide to try and learn. For the past two years, I’ve lodged in London and not even had a kitchen cupboard to my name. I've lived off salads, baked beans and restuarants. Let's face it - I’m out of practice. I decide to make a pie. Like a Delia-goddess, my mother runs me through it. We clear the work-surface, lightly dust the surface. Weigh the flour and butter. I tie-up my hair, roll-up my sleeves and begin kneading. It sticks together but not in a good way. My hands are too hot, Mum says whipping it away from me. You need cold hands.
I press the pastry carefully down in the pie dish, watching it tear and crack into tributaries.
Peel and slice the potatoes. Par boil them. Softy fry some leeks in butter, add milk and lashings of cheese and layer them on the pasty.
Delicately, I lay-down the top layer. I tender to it like a gardener his roses, carefully pressing down the edges with my thumb, dabbing the top with a smudge of egg. I inscribe Vs into it like flying sea-gulls.
We scoff the lot. It’s bloody delicious, even if I do say so myself. I’m so proud of my creation, I delete my youngest nephew from my mobile phone’s screen-saver and replace him with the pie in all its glory, half cut open, steaming in triumph. I text my big sister to let her know her son’s been dumped. Two minutes later, a photo of said nephew pings back to me, with the words, ‘You’re not my favourite aunty anymore.’
Oooh, it’s a tough call. But blackmail or not, the pie’s staying.