Dread and Breakfast

It is eight thirty on a Saturday morning. The Aged Ps arrived late last night with the announcement that they were "exhausted" after spending the day in Cambridge voting for the new Chancellor of the University, so they would like a lie-in.
I would have liked a lie-in too, but am feeling very sorry for myself as I have had to take Daughter into school early yet again. I told the Ageds this before we went to bed, but that doesn't guarantee they'll have remembered it by the time they wake up.
I console myself on my return with the thought that no one else will be up yet, so I will have the house to myself. I walk up the garden path savouring the idea of my first cup of coffee of the day, but as I approach the kitchen, I spy figures through the window, and my heart sinks. The Aged Ps are already up and about, pacing like Psycho Cat at feeding time.
"Hello," I say. "Hope you slept well?"
"Not really," says Mother.
"Oh dear," I reply, more from dread at what this will mean for the day's mood than for any other reason.
"Where's my granddaughter?" she snaps. "Lounging in bed, I suppose. Typical teenager."
"Actually, no. She's at school," I begin, digging my nails deep into my arm to prevent myself from adding "as I told you last night."
"At school? On a Saturday? Oh well, you never tell me anything," says Mother.
I take a deep breath. "I'm going to have a shower. Help yourself to coffee."
Dad smiles and thanks me and goes back to checking the internet on his phone to see who has been voted Chancellor. Another thing for me to worry about: if Brian Blessed gets the vote Mother will hyerpventilate with anger. I shall have to run away from my own house.
I back away hastily. "And help yourself to anything else you fancy," I say on my way up the stairs.
"Oh!" Mother calls up after me. "We have to forage for our breakfast, do we?"
I grit my teeth and hurry to the peace and solitude of the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes and one hot shower later I come back down feeling slightly fortified to find the Aged Ps are still pacing.
"We can't work the kettle," says Mother.
I lift it up and shake it. "That's because you haven't put any water in it," I explain.
"Oh well," says Mother. "How was I meant to know?"
I bite back any number of responses, all of which would probably start up another World War, and set about making breakfast.
Small Boy is supposed to be dressed and ready by now. He has to go into school as well. There is to be a celebration of the building being 21 years on its present site, and there is to be a grand opening by the Mayor of some smart new ICT and DT facilities. Small Boy has a part to play in this which is mainly why the Aged Ps have come to stay, as Mother "never sees her grandchildren do anything". This is a chance to rectify yet another appalling oversight of mine.
Small Boy is nowhere near dressed. He is watching TV in his pyjamas, tucked up with The Cats under my best woollen throw. He is in his element (as are The Cats). A visit from the Aged Ps means he can get away with watching as much TV as he likes, as there is always so much bickering going on, no one notices. He does however resurface once he smells toast.
"You're not dressed!" I shout, unfairly taking out my frustration on him. "We've got to be back in school for the opening ceremony thing in half an hour!"
Small Boy rolls his eyes and ignores me while inhaling half a packet of chocolate chip brioches which his grandmother has bought him with the usual total disregard for my attitudes towards such food.
Just as I am contemplating removing the packet of brioches from his sweaty little hands, the dog sets up a riotous barking. This is our signal for the arrival of the newspaper. Oh no, I groan inwardly. I should have stopped at the shop to buy the Torygraph. Mother will spit when she sees the Guardian. I nip out to intercept the paperboy and attempt to smuggle the offending publication into the house without being seen.
Mother has preempted me and jumps out from behind the door.
"No!" she shouts, swiping the paper out of my hand. "Not this rag! And look! He's resigned! Liam Fox has resigned! Oh, I bet the left-wing liberal wets just LOVE that. If it wasn't for papers like this--"
"Look at the time!" I exclaim. "We're going to be late if we don't get a move on."
In the past I have noticed that it is best to treat the Aged Ps like toddlers: feed them regularly, let them sleep regularly and if all else fails, use distraction.
Sadly, the distraction technique doesn't seem to be working today. Even though Mother would normally rather be forced to say "I love Tony Blair" than be late for something, today she is ignoring me. She is still rummaging through the newspaper, pointing and snarling and leaving the thing completely unreadable for anyone else who might have shown a genuine interest in its contents. Finally she thrusts a supplement at me and announces triumphantly, "You should read this."
It is entitled "How to Write Fiction."
"Thanks," I manage, although I am close to choking, "but I kind of already know how to do that. It's my - er - job."
"You have a job?" Mother barks with astonishment. "Well, of course, you never tell me anything."