“‘Twist, Rosie, twist,’ said my little sister Deb.
‘I’m twisting as much as I can. If I twist any more, I might dislocate something.’
‘All right, all right. We’ll try something a little easier. Let me have a look at the book again.’
We are in the sparsely furnished spare bedroom in Deb’s flat. We can hear, from the kitchen, that Mr Dear and his drill are still busy, putting up some of those rails from which you can hang serving spoons and hand whisks, and other useful
