‘You’re not very good at this, are you?” It was 2008, when I was 30 and temporarily in charge of my 13-year-old cousin. Those words, spoken as she perched like an avenging angel by the Magimix in my parents’ kitchen, were her verdict on how I was shaping up.
Megan as she was then – she switched to her middle name, Ennea, at 18 – had been dealt a rough hand. She had lost her mum aged six, her dad when she was 11, and was now living with my sixtysomething parents – who were off having a little breather for a week.
