There's no place like home

This morning over madeira wine with the Codebreakers I learned about the early life of Mrs Beeton. (Total aside: I can't get the image of her as a matronly Victorian Martha Stewart out of my head, despite the fact that she died at the grand old age of 28.)

When her father died, her mother (who had 5 or 6 kids) married her dad's friend (who had 5 or 6 kids). Then they some kids of their own, which brought the grand total of children in the house to 23 (apparently one prankster son posted the dad a condom, which was the equivalent of calling him one who frequents prostitutes. Cue: one unimpressed father).

Anyhoo, so the bizarre bit is this: the stepdad happened to own the Epsom Racecourse - yes the Epsom Derby place - and since it was only used on a single day each year, he moved the family in there. Moved the family into the racecourse.

I imagine a few throw cushions, some nightlights, and any stadium becomes cosy.

That is some family. I see now why Mrs Beeton's recipes nonchalantly call for 12 dozen eggs.