Another gingerbread house

In 1982, my brother, Will, had an au pair called Lotta. She was from Stockholm and introduced us to gravadlax and Swedish meatballs. We, in turn, introduced her to marmite, which she could not bear or even comprehend. We put a small jar of it into her stocking and my father filmed the look of horror that crossed her face when she unwrapped it.

The same Christmas, she had made a traditional gingerbread house for us. It had wooden figures, toadstalls and candles. Cotton wool snow. I arrived home from school to be told of these wonders and my mother took me into the dining room to inspect it. She struck a match to light the candles; but the head of the match flew off and hit a collection of Pampas grass that was in a vase behind it and the Pampas grass started blazing. My brother burst into tears; my mother picked up the roaring Pampas grass and carried it through the hall and out of the front door into the garden. Crisis averted.

Back in the dining room, standing next to a patch of scorched brown flowery wallpaper, Lotta was surveying ruefully the remains of her gingerbread house: collapsed walls; a strong smell of melted sugar; charred cotton wool snow, singed figures and blackened toadstools. A combination of the Wizard of Oz and Hansel and Gretel...