SUNDAY AFTERNOON

Sunday afternoon. Round here it's as though we're trying to tick off as many stereotypes as possible. I've had a sleep, we've got cake and teacakes on fancy plates and two pots of tea on the go.

In addition, the Intrepids are watching Songs of Praise. My Dad likes to sing along with the hymns and point out where they've changed the words by singing the 'right ones' really loudly; my Mum likes to point out people she thinks she recognises as the camera scans the congregation.

"There's Jean, holding the music upside down," she'll say.

"In Leicester Cathedral with the Salvation Army?" says my Dad, breaking out of Great is Thy Faithfulness for a bar or two to interject. It turns out not to be Jean of course.

We've also had two rounds of the Dustbin Conversation. My Mum has figured out that the Dustbin Conversation is Dad's way of remembering to do it.

"Are you going out Matthew?"

"Yes, I think so."

"What time?"

"About seven, I think."

"OK, I'll do the dustbins when you get back and the car's in. It's the grey bin tonight."

"OK."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"What time are you back?"

"About nine-ish."

"Right, I'll get my shoes on."

The thing is, I can drive round the bins. It actually doesn't matter. Yet it's as much a feature of a Sunday as the tea and cake and the Countryfile 5 Day Weather Forecast.

The Intrepids are planning their trips out while they're in New Zealand next February. They've got a trip on a sailing ship round Queen Charlotte Sound and my Mum wants to go white water rafting. My Dad isn't fussed by planning that kind of adventure it seems.

He's putting the bins out.