Sunday Lunch

Sunday lunch with Grandma Brand was never relaxing.

People imagined Sunday lunch as peaceful.

People imagined roast potatoes, gentle conversation, perhaps a sleepy dog near a fireplace.

Those people had clearly never met Barry Brand.

Or Marmaduke.

Or, frankly, the entire Brand family dynamic, which operated somewhere between “minor emergency” and “official inquiry.”

At precisely 11:12 on Sunday morning, Mrs Brand stood in the hallway of their London house holding her handbag, car keys, and the last shreds of optimism.

“Has anyone seen Barry?”

There was a pause.

Then Alfie spoke from the stairs without even looking up from his book.

“Emotionally or physically?”

“Physically, Alfie.”

“Then no.”

Mr Brand emerged from the kitchen carrying coffee and the expression of a man who had checked his bank balance too recently.

“Marmaduke’s with him,” he said, neither reassuringly nor accusingly. 

Mrs Brand froze.

“He’s here?”

A crash sounded upstairs.

Then Barry shouted:

“IT WAS ALREADY BROKEN!”

Mr and Mrs Brand closed their eyes simultaneously.

“That’s never reassuring,” muttered Mr Brand.

Alfie turned a page calmly.

“I’d guess bathroom.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Because Barry only says ‘It was already broken’ after water-related incidents.”

This, unfortunately, turned out to be correct.

Barry and Marmaduke were discovered in the upstairs bathroom attempting to “rescue” Mrs Brand’s electric toothbrush from the toilet using barbecue tongs.

“Why,” asked Mrs Brand faintly, “is there mud everywhere?”

“We needed camouflage,” Barry explained.

“For what?”

“In case the toothbrush got aggressive.”

Marmaduke nodded solemnly. “Toothbrushes can panic.”

Alfie appeared in the doorway behind them.

“Technically,” he said, “this is still less serious than the chicken incident.”

“Don’t mention the chicken incident,” said Mr Brand immediately.

Nobody ever mentioned the chicken incident.

Especially not in public.

Forty minutes later, the family finally arrived at The King’s Oak Country Dining Experience, which was the sort of pub restaurant that described chips as “triple-cooked heritage potatoes” and served tiny metal buckets containing three peas and disappointment.

Grandma Brand was already waiting at the table.

She was eighty-two, magnificently deaf, and entirely immune to chaos.

This made her the calmest member of the family.

“There you are!” she boomed as they approached.

“We’re only five minutes late,” said Mrs Brand.

“YES, THE TRAFFIC WAS AWFUL,” shouted Grandma Brand loudly enough to alarm a nearby waiter.

“No, Mum, I said—”

“WHAT?”

“Never mind.”

Grandma Brand smiled serenely at Barry and Marmaduke, who were already circling the restaurant like optimistic raccoons.

“Oh, let them play,” she said happily.

Mr and Mrs Brand looked toward the soft play area.

And immediately entered a shared state of psychological collapse.

The soft play zone stood at the far end of the restaurant behind a wooden gate.

It had tunnels.

Slides.

Ball pits.

Suspicious stains.

And the particular smell unique to indoor play areas everywhere — a blend of disinfectant, ketchup, and ancient fear.

Children screamed joyfully inside.

A toddler appeared briefly upside down in a netted tube before vanishing again.

One father sat nearby staring into middle distance with the hollow expression of a hostage negotiator.

Mrs Brand gripped her menu.

“We can’t let Barry in there.”

“Agreed,” whispered Mr Brand.

“But if we don’t let him in there, he’ll destroy the restaurant instead.”

This was also true.

Alfie sat down carefully.

“I’d just like it noted,” he said, “that I’m not supervising them.”

“Of course not,” said Dad quickly.

“We learned our lesson yesterday.”

Grandma Brand beamed.

“YES, THE WEATHER HAS BEEN LOVELY.”

Nobody corrected her.

Barry pressed his face against the soft play window.

“Mum,” he breathed, “there’s a curly whirly slide.”

Mrs Brand closed her eyes briefly.

Of course there was.

Every terrible decision in Barry’s life began with wonder.

“Please?” he begged.

Marmaduke joined him instantly.

“I’ve never seen so many germs in one place.”

“That’s not a selling point,” said Mr Brand.

Barry turned dramatically.

“We may never get this opportunity again.”

“You were in soft play a few weeks ago.”

“Yes, but I’m older now.”

Alfie snorted into his lemonade.

Eventually, against all instinct, the parents surrendered.

“Fine,” said Mrs Brand weakly. “Shoes off. Stay together. No climbing outside the frames. No biting. No licking things. No—”

But Barry and Marmaduke had already disappeared into the padded wilderness.

Mr Brand sat down heavily.

Then he glanced toward the play area window.

“I can’t see them anymore.”

“That’s normal,” said Alfie.

“No,” whispered Mr Brand. “That’s never normal.”

Grandma Brand sipped her tea peacefully.

“THIS SOUP IS EXCELLENT.”

“We haven’t ordered yet, Mum.”

“WHAT?”

Meanwhile, inside soft play, Barry had discovered what all four-year-olds eventually discover:

Rules are surprisingly flexible when adults are tired.

“Look,” he whispered to Marmaduke from inside a tunnel. “There’s a door marked STAFF ONLY.”

Marmaduke gasped.

“We’re not staff.”

“Exactly.”

The boys stared at the door with reverence.

Forbidden doors possessed magical power over small children.

Adults never understood this.

If a child sees a normal door, they ignore it.

Write STAFF ONLY on the same door and suddenly it contains dragons, treasure, or possibly crisps.

Barry pushed it open.

Inside was a narrow corridor containing cleaning supplies, extra high chairs, and a large industrial ice cream machine humming quietly in the corner.

Marmaduke looked amazed.

“This is where they make restaurants.”

Barry nodded wisely.

Then he spotted the lever.

Every catastrophe in history probably involved a lever.

“Don’t touch it,” said Marmaduke immediately.

Barry touched it.

The machine groaned.

There was a mechanical clunk.

Then frozen yoghurt began pouring magnificently from a nozzle into absolutely nothing.

The boys stared in awe as vanilla yoghurt splattered onto the floor like a dairy volcano.

“Oh,” whispered Marmaduke.

Barry considered this carefully.

“I think it’s excited to see us.”

Within seconds the corridor floor became dangerously slippery.

Barry attempted to stop the machine by pulling another lever.

This somehow increased production.

Now chocolate yoghurt joined the vanilla.

Marmaduke slipped immediately and crashed gently into a stack of booster seats.

“WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!” he yelled.

Out in the restaurant, Mr Brand froze mid-conversation.

“Did you hear shouting?”

“No,” said Grandma Brand cheerfully. “THE CHICKEN WAS DELICIOUS.”

“We haven’t eaten yet, Mum.”

Alfie slowly lowered his menu.

Then he heard it.

Not screaming.

Not crying.

Worse.

Barry laughing.

Deep, delighted, unstoppable Barry laughter.

Alfie stood up immediately.

“I’ll go.”

Mr Brand looked emotional.

“Thank you.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” Alfie clarified. “I just want witnesses.”

Inside the soft play zone, children had begun gathering outside the mysterious corridor.

Because children are naturally drawn toward danger like seagulls toward chips.

One little boy pointed excitedly.

“SNOW!”

“It’s not snow,” said Alfie, arriving just in time to see Marmaduke sliding across yoghurt like a tiny confused penguin.

Barry waved happily from beside the machine.

“Good news! We found pudding.”

Alfie pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Why are you wet?”

“Mostly vanilla.”

A member of staff finally appeared.

She stopped.

Took in the scene.

And visibly reconsidered her career choices.

The corridor looked like a dairy explosion.

Children were tracking yoghurt footprints through soft play.

One toddler was licking the wall.

Barry pointed helpfully at the machine.

“I think it’s poorly.”

The staff member inhaled slowly through her nose.

“Where are your parents?”

At that exact moment, a chocolate-covered Marmaduke slipped again, accidentally crashed into the emergency exit bar, and opened the rear fire door.

Cold air blasted inside.

Somewhere in the kitchen, an alarm began screaming.

The restaurant froze.

Waiters stopped walking.

Cutlery clattered.

Mr Brand went pale instantly.

“Oh no.”

Mrs Brand whispered, “That’s our alarm.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Mother’s intuition.”

Grandma Brand looked up happily.

“IS IT SOMEONE’S BIRTHDAY?”

The staff member in soft play now had the expression of a woman mentally composing a resignation email.

Alfie stepped forward calmly.

“I’d just like to state for the record that I attempted absolutely none of this.”

Barry grinned at him.

“You’re still technically involved.”

“I know.”

The manager arrived moments later.

Managers at family restaurants always look exhausted, as though they’ve personally witnessed civilisation ending near the ball pit.

“What,” he asked slowly, “happened here?”

Barry answered honestly.

“The machine made a bad choice.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“We tried supporting it emotionally.”

Alfie folded his arms.

“In fairness, they probably prevented further yoghurt overflow by opening the fire exit.”

“WE SAVED PEOPLE,” Barry agreed proudly.

The manager stared at them.

Then at the corridor.

Then at Barry again.

“You opened a restricted staff area.”

Barry looked thoughtful.

“Yes, but the sign was very interesting.”

Meanwhile, back at the table, Grandma Brand remained blissfully relaxed.

She waved at passing waiters.

“LOVELY MUSIC.”

“It’s the fire alarm, Mum,” shouted Mr Brand.

“YES, THANK YOU, I WILL HAVE PUDDING.”

Mrs Brand suddenly appeared carrying Barry under one arm and Marmaduke under the other like muddy shopping bags.

Both boys were sticky.

Very sticky.

Alfie followed calmly behind holding wet wipes.

Mr Brand stared at the children.

Then at his wife. 

Then at the growing crowd near soft play.

“…What did they do?”

Mrs Brand sat down heavily.

“They weaponised frozen yoghurt.”

Grandma Brand smiled proudly at Barry.

“YOU’RE SUCH CLEVER BOYS.”

“Thank you!” shouted Barry.

The manager approached the table carefully.

To his credit, he looked remarkably calm for a man whose restaurant now smelled like warm vanilla panic.

“There’s been a small incident,” he began diplomatically.

“A large incident,” corrected Alfie.

“Thank you, Alfie,” sighed Mrs Brand.

The manager continued.

“The boys accessed a staff corridor.”

Barry raised a finger.

“The door was already open-ish.”

“It was locked.”

“Yes,” Barry agreed, “but emotionally open.”

The manager blinked several times.

Mrs Brand covered her face with both hands.

“We’re so terribly sorry.”

Grandma Brand leaned forward.

“WHAT’S THAT?”

“The boys caused some trouble, Mum.”

Grandma Brand looked delighted.

“GOOD FOR THEM.”

There was a silence.

Then unexpectedly, the manager laughed.

Just once.

A tired little laugh that escaped before he could stop it.

“Well,” he admitted, “to be fair… it’s the most excitement we’ve had all week.”

Barry puffed out his chest proudly.

“We improve places.”

“You certainly alter them,” muttered Alfie.

In the end, the manager accepted the Brands’ apologies, mostly because Barry and Marmaduke looked genuinely devastated when informed the ice cream machine was now “having a rest.”

Sunday lunch resumed.

Roasts arrived.

Grandma Brand loudly complimented entirely unrelated meals at nearby tables.

Barry asked seventeen questions about gravy.

Marmaduke accidentally inhaled a pea.

And Alfie sat quietly eating potatoes with the exhausted dignity of a retired detective.

As dessert arrived, Mr Brand looked at his eldest son.

“You know,” he said carefully, “you handled today very maturely.”

Alfie nodded modestly.

“I’ve accepted that chaos is unstoppable.”

“That’s quite deep for a seven-year-old.”

“I learned it from Barry.”

Barry smiled proudly through chocolate ice cream.

“I’m a teacher.”

“No,” said Alfie. “You’re more like a weather event.”

Grandma Brand suddenly looked up from her trifle.

“WHO WANTS TO GO TO SOFT PLAY AGAIN?”

Mr and Mrs Brand reacted so quickly they nearly dislocated something.

“NO.”