I can't do that...can I?

This weekend seems to have gone as quickly as it came.

Mrs. anglosaxy pretty much took control of proceedings, showing me how 'it's done' over here. It seems that whenever hunger strikes, she can snap her fingers and 'Hey Presto!', food will magically appear. It all started yesterday; mrs. anglosaxy had got back from her Friday morning stint at work, and fancied some of her mother's cooking [not that I would have said 'no', her mother is a great cook]. Anyway, after informing me of her hunger, she promptly called her mother and ordered some of whatever she was cooking. Whatever it was, it was bound to me much better than my attempt at pasta. The next thing I knew, I was being bundled off to pick up the 'package'. Sheepishly knocking on her mother's door, I entered, cap in hand, explaining (and apologising) that I had come to pick up food and was then going to do a runner. I was a little embarrassed, though I was repeatedly informed by both mother and daughter that 'this is Israel and it's OK'...still takes some getting used to, this Israel malarky, even after a few years...

Today, mrs. anglosaxy decided to rearrange the bedroom. Or, maybe I should put it like this: she ordered me to move the bed over here and then put the side cupboard over there. After working up a hunger (?), she then decided that she fancied some more of yesterday's fine offerings. This time, my Britishness took over and I refused to be her messenger boy (besides, Arsenal were just about to kick off against Blackburn). I really can't be that Israeli, however much I try. It even annoys me that it seems to be taken for granted that the Israeli mother cooks for and coddles her siblings, even after they've long flown the nest. That umbilical cord really needs severing...really...