“You’ve got an awful lot of cousins for the product of two only children,” said the housemate as we headed up to The Mother’s house for a reunion with the latest family member to pay a visit.

“I know,” I replied. “But they’re not cousins, they’re ‘cousins’ I explained making those ridiculous little speech marks in the air with my fingers as I said the word.

“I see,” she replied.

“Well my main ‘cousins’ who are not really cousins are the sons of my parents’ best friends so we were brought up together. We can’t just call each other friends, because if was the case responsible parents would never have allowed us to play together because we used to get into so much trouble!

“Only family could get away with some of the things we did as kids…and some of the things we say to each other as adults,” I added.

“Then there are family members, who are my parents’ cousins so are are sort of cousins to me…probably once or twice removed but who we see quite a lot of…and then there’s those who are really close, but in honesty we don’t know what the relationship is.”

“How can you not know how you are related to someone?” asked the housemate, who has hundreds of very straightforward cousins.

“I had a grandfather who could quite confidently negotiate his way through the family tree and demonstrate that he was his own grandmother,” I replied. “A few missing branches on the cousin tree is nothing compared to that!”

“So how does the cousin we seeing tonight fit in?” asked the housemate tentatively. “Does he come with speech marks or not?”

“Not..I think,” I replied.

“His mother and my grandmother were first cousins so that makes us third cousins…or second cousins once removed…or something along that line,” I explained.

“The important thing to remember is that he’s French and he’s a chef and I told him he could only come and stay if he cooked dinner, so we need to go up to The Mother’s and remind him of that promise.”

Arriving at the house there was no sign of my French relation or his daughter who was accompanying him to explore her Welsh heritage for the first time.

“Where’s Marc?” I asked my sister who had opened the door for us.

“He’s in the kitchen,” replied my sister with a grin.

“It’s hysterical. He’s prepping for a family dinner tomorrow and he won’t let The Mother do anything. It’s so funny watching her coping with someone taking over her domain.”

“I’ve already had a row,” chipped in The Mother.

“She suggested I should buy ready made puff pastry for the mille-feuille,” said my cousin in horror.

“I told her I am French and we do not buy puff pastry pastry, we make puff pastry,” he added reaching for the butter.

“I think I preferred him when he was a lovely little boy with a mop of blond hair coming up to visit us in Llangattock when his parents came home from France for visits,”said The Mother affectionately.

“I am still lovely…I just don’t have the hair,” said my cousin from the kitchen.

“But he can cook now,” I said already looking forward to my long- awaited meal.