You Sexy Thing

I ring the Aged Ps to catch up on news. Dad answers, which is a pleasant surprise.
"Hi, Dad. How are you?"
Immediately in the background I can hear aggressive noises, which get louder as Mother approaches the phone.
"IT'S ANNA!" Dad yells in my ear.
"WHO?" Mother yells back.
I pull the receiver back slightly as the phone clatters on the Other Side.
"Hello," grunts Mother.
"Hi. How are you?" I ask. When will I learn . . .?
"Not good," says Mother. "We have had a very disturbing afternoon." She sniffs loudly to indicate disapproval and disgust.
"Oh dear," I say.
"It wasn't disturbing exactly--" Dad offers.
"Yes, it was," Mother snaps.
"So, er - what happened?" I ask.
"You know we've been helping this social scientist person with a questionnaire--?" Mother begins.
"--it's that survey we were telling you about," Dad adds. "The one about How Old Age Affects Our Life, or something," he finishes vaguely.
There then ensues an argument between the Ageds over what the survey is called, who is carrying it out and which company got them into this in the first place. I drift off and start thinking about when I can put the phone down and start watching Masterchef.
"So what do you think about THAT, hmmmm?" Mother suddenly barks.
"Eh?" I sit up. "Oh, er, well, very interesting?"
"NO!" Mother shouts. "There is nothing interesting at all about being quizzed on your SEX LIFE! At OUR AGE!"
Wow. I am listening now.
"Your sex--?"
"YES!"
"It wasn't that bad," Dad says sadly. "It's not as though we have much to--"
"La-alalalallalaaaaaa!" I sing in a panicked tone. "I don't think I really want to--"
"Nor did I!" says Mother. "And do you know what she said? She said, 'Yours is the first generation that we have asked these questions to.' The cheek!"
"You should take it as a compliment, then," I say. "I don't suppose Grandma's generation would have understood the questions. They probably think you are liberated, having been young adults in the sixties and all that."
"Well, we soon put her right on that," says Mother.
"Yes," says Dad with a sigh. "We certainly did."

The History Girl

The Aged Ps have had a lovely week. They have been up to London to see the Bronze exhibition at the Royal Academy. I, on the other hand, have been down the road to talk to 70 children about cats and dogs. I am also full of snot.
"Wow, I am quite jealous," I say. "What was it like?"
"Well, it was all right . . ." says Mother. "The layout wasn't very good."
"But what were the bronzes like--?"
"And the labelling was so annoying. Have you heard of this 'C.E.' business?"
For a moment I mishear and think she is about to go on a rant about the Church of England and how she is glad they have not voted for women bishops because it's bad enough having women vicars, etc., etc., and so forth. But no.
"C.E.?" I say tentatively. "Do you mean Common Era?"
"Common Era," Mother sneers. "What the hell does that mean? Common with what? With whom? With the Muslims, I suppose."
"Well, I think the idea is--"
"I know what the IDEA is," Mother says. "But it's Cringe Central, if you ask me."
"Er, that would make it C.C, actually," I say.
"What?" Mother snaps.
"Nothing."
"I mean why should we change our calendar to fit in with all these multi-cultural immigrants, anyway? We are a Christian country with a Christian heritage."
"Which is why you don't go to church or believe in any of that nonsense," I point out.
"Well, yes, I know, I mean, I don't but . . . it's our culture. It's part of Our History!" Mother says.
Saying that something is part of Our History is Mother's trump card. If something is part of Our History, it is sacrosanct, indelible, cast in stone. You cannot argue with Our History.
I think about tackling her argument from a number of different standpoints. But my head is full of cotton wool, my son needs help with his Chemistry revision, I am trying to make carrot and celeriac soup, and I am struggling with some knotty plot problems in a book about chickens. I have neither the time nor the willpower.
"Yes, I expect you're right," I find myself saying.
I shall probably live to regret saying this, but at least it brings the conversation swiftly to a close.

The Next Big Thing

If you are a regular reader of my blog, you will know that I only post silly sketches about my family and our pets. However, today I am going to use it for shameless self-promotion as I was tagged to be part of an internet meme called THE NEXT BIG THING.

(Click on the red words to go to relevant links.)

The writer who tagged me is the lovely Karen Saunders, a fellow children’s writer whom I met at the Bath Children’s Literature Festival. Her own version of the meme appears here. The idea is that every Wednesday some children’s authors will post some Q & As about their books and then tag a new author to do the same the following week. It’s like a very excellent chain letter – one you actually WANT to be part of!

What is the title of your next book?

The next book to be published is called The Smug Pug. Macmillan Children’s Books are publishing it in February 2013. It’s the third and final book in my Pooch Parlour series which includes The Poodle Problem and The Dotty Dalmatian.

What is a one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Dash the dachshund is suspicious when a clever and very smug pug arrives in Crumbly-under-Edge, bringing with him a mysterious machine to help out in the pooch-pampering salon.

Where did the idea for the book come from?

The idea for the whole series came to me whilst chatting in the hairdressers. I was moaning (as I frequently do) about writer’s block.

“I can’t come up with any more stories!” I wailed.

“Why don’t you write about us?” suggested my hairdresser. “There’s always funny things going on in this place.”

“But my publishers want me to write about dogs,” I cried, “not hairdressers!”

Now, the funny thing about inspiration is that it can come from the most unlikely places or conversations. And so it was that in the car on the way home, I could not stop thinking about hairdressers and dogs (as you do). By the time I had got back to my desk, the idea for a pooch-pampering parlour had started to take root.

“What if I had a dog who could talk and who helped out in the parlour?” I thought. “And what if he was a bit of a Sherlock Holmes and liked solving mysteries . . .”

What if . . . ? What if . . . ? The cogs had started whirring and the idea for Mrs Fudge’s Pooch-Pampering Parlour was born!

What genre does your book fall under?

Young fiction for 7-10s. The Smug Pug will appeal to boys as well as girls as there’s loads of gadgets and slap-stick comedy in it. And the cover is yellow. (NOT pink, for a change . . .)

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

The minute I saw the illustration that Kate Daubney did for the cover, I could not get the image of Ronnie Corbett out of my head. Not sure he would accept the part of a pug, though, however much he was paid!

Julie Walters would make a lovely Mrs Fudge (the owner of the pooch parlour). Although the image of her on this link is perhaps a bit too glam! Think Mrs Weasley in Harry Potter, but with white hair . . . 

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

It’s being published by Macmillan Children’s Books. Macmillan have published all my young fiction titles. My agent is Hilary Delamere at The Agency.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

The first complete draft of a new series takes between six months and a year. I scribble loads of notes to start with, churn it over in my mind obsessively and write at least five drafts before I show it to my editor, then she suggests improvements and I write another draft! By the time it is published, it has gone through many changes. And it is always better for having been thoroughly edited.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I was a bit stumped when it came to thinking what other books I would compare my series to, so I asked my editor how she would answer this question. She said, “Your books are like Andy Stanton’s Mr Gum books in terms of writing style, and the content is like The Great Hamster Massacre or the Cat Conspiracy books by Katie Davies.”

I was pretty pleased with those comparisons! I hope readers will agree . . . Basically, the books are comedies with a mystery-solving twist, and are aimed at animal lovers.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

The idea for the whole series came from the hairdressers, as I have explained, and is a sort of The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency in a pooch parlour! But the individual characters came from all over the place. Mrs Fudge is a little bit like an English version of Mma Ramotswe from The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and she is a lot like my wonderful Grandma who passed away a couple of years ago. She was a great cake-baker and tea-drinker and a very kind and patient grandmother. She also had snow-white hair and was round and cuddly!

Pippa Peppercorn is a little bit like me when I was 10 and a little bit like Pippi Longstocking and a little bit like my daughter when she was 10.

Smug the pug is inspired by a very old book called The Incredible Adventures of Professor Branestawm, which I loved to read when I was young.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

I hope the characters will make you laugh out loud! And I know that anyone who sees Clare Elsom’s beautiful inside illustrations will be tickled by them. 

Next up, I’m tagging the fantastic writers Michelle Robinson, who blogs here, has a website here and tweets @MicheRobinson and the marvellous Chris D’Lacey of The Fire Within fame. He has a website here and blogs here and tweets @chrisdlacey.

Have fun hopping from blog to blog to check out all the authors involved in The Next Big Thing. Once you start, you can't stop!

The Very Important Birthday

Mother is back on form, having been finally assured by her doctor that she may resume "normal activities". I am thinking that most people would take that to mean resuming an exercise regime or going back to eating habits formerly proscribed by the doctor during the period of illness. I don't know. What I do know is that "normal activities" for Mother comprise resuming badgering her family with phone calls delivered in an obstreperous tone with Dad on the other end to maximise the effects of stereophonic insanity.
To bastardise Jeanette Winterson's latest book title: "Why be normal when you could derive enormous pleasure from driving your family round the bend?"

"Yfather and I sat on the M11 for two hours last night," she informs me. "I've said it before and I'll say it again -" [sharp intake of breath] " - there are too many people in this country."
"It wasn't that bad, dear," Dad pipes up on the other line. "We spent a lovely time listening to our Italian CD."
"Harrumph," says Mother. "We could have done that at home in comfort instead of being stuck in a traffic jam of immigrants--"
"What were you doing on the M11?" I ask, more to cut Mother off at the chase than because I need to know the answer.
"We went to see y'sister, didn't we?" snaps Mother. "She's 40 now, you know."
"Yes, I did know," I say.
"Well," sniffs Mother. "Everyone seems to have forgotten that I have a Very Important Birthday coming up soon."
She pauses.
I pause too before saying, "Oh?"
Mother's Very Important Birthday is not until August 2013. My poor sister has literally only just celebrated hers. But of course, this is nothing compared to what Mother is building up to.
"I," says Mother, "I . . . shall be SEVENTY."
Pause again.
I had forgotten that getting older was a competitive event on a par with entering an Olympic heptathlon.
"So you shall," I say.
"Well, I hope you're going to make a fuss of me," says Mother. "No one ever makes a fuss of me on my birthday."
Perhaps that's because by the time the nine month gestation period between the announcing of the event and its actual occurrence has elapsed, any enthusiasm we may have had about a celebration has worn so thin you could use it as cling film to wrap the party food in. And even if we do throw our all into a knees-up or a special present, it is generally met with comments along the lines of, "Well, I didn't think much of the meal/present/party/guests."
"Are you still there?" asks Mother.
"Yes, dear. I'm still here," says Dad.
"I meant y'daughter!" Mother says. "Is y'daughter still there? It's gone very quiet."
"Yes, I'm still here," I say.
"So are you going to make a fuss of me or not?"
"Am I going to make a fuss of you in nine months time when you turn seventy?" I ask.
"Well, if you're going to put it like that . . ."
"She didn't mean anything by it," says Dad.
"Yes she did. Everyone else gets spoilt on their birthday. What about me . . . "
I put the phone down gently on the table and let Mother and Dad talk to each other for a bit while I start jotting down ideas of how to survive the next nine months.
Maybe I should join the traffic jam of immigrants on the M11.

All it takes is a faith and trust - and a Little Bit of Pixie Dust

Not-So-Small Boy and I are stuck in traffic, and he is filling me in on School Life.
"We think William's sister has a boyfriend, so we were teasing her about it last night when we all walked out of school together," he confides.
William's sister is sixteen, or thereabouts. I am sure she is thrilled about two giggly eleven-year-old boys teasing her in front of their friends. I decide not to criticise as criticism inevitably leads to conversational shut-down. I will learn more if I just stick to chit-chat.
"What's his name?"I ask.
"Well, it wouldn't be fair for me to tell you that," my son says, frowning.
"Clearly," I say.
"So, me 'n' William have decided to use a code word instead. We are going to call him Beano because his name sounds like one of the characters in the Beano!"
"Right." I shudder to think.
"Which reminds me!" Not-So-Small Boy says, bouncing in his seat. "I've got a new nickname!"
"Oh?"
"Yeah. It's Tinker Bell!"
I put all my energies into not crashing into the car in front. "WHAT?"
"Yeah. It's coz there's going to be a school play next term and we think it's Peter Pan and I said could I be Tinker Bell?"
"As in . . . Tinker Bell the fairy?" I ask, staring resolutely ahead.
"Yes!"
"As in . . . the fairy who wears a tutu and waves a wand?"
"Yes!"
"But - a fairy?"
"Yes!"
I swallow hard.
"Why?"
"S'obvious. I get to fly!" Not-So-Small Boy flings his arms wide and beams with delight.
"But - But," I stammer. "But PETER PAN flies! And John, and Michael. And the Lost BOYS - don't they fly as well?" I have no idea, but I am clutching at straws here. I refuse to mention Wendy. I don't want to be responsible for where that might lead.
"Yeah, but they don't have pixie dust, do they?" says my son triumphantly. "THAT is cool."
"Right." I take deep, steady breaths. I can see his mind is made up.
"Anyway, so that's why my new nickname is Tinker Bell," my son says. "And Molly has even changed my name on her phone to say 'Tinker Bell'."
"And you're fine with that?" I ask.
"Course, why not?" my son says, looking puzzled. "Why wouldn't I be?"
I cannot help but admire his confidence. I smile. "Absolutely," I say. "Why wouldn't you?"

Don't Mention the Lingua Latina!

I ring the Aged Ps, armed with amusing anecdotes. I refuse to let the conversation descend into its usual rant against The State of the Nation, The Weather or What A Terrible Year This Has Been. Mother is gearing up for her annual Annus Horribilis speech early this year, and I am not in the mood for another rehearsal. Bearing this in mind, I have armed myself with a list of prohibited topics so that I can steer a path through the conversation to sunnier themes.

The list is as follows:

Thou shalt not mention Ed Milliband in the same sentence as Disraeli
This is sure to set off a diatribe against the conniving nature of the shifty left who will do anything to get into power. (Trouble is, I sort of agree with this. If Milliband can side with Disraeli, it won't be long before Thatcher gets a mention. But THOU SHALT NOT start this conversation because . . . )

Thou shalt DEFINITELY not mention Thatcher at all EVER
Mother worships at her shrine. The hagiography that ensues at the mere whisper of the woman's name is enough to turn the strongest of stomachs. In fact, come to think of it . . .

Thou shalt not bring up the topic of politics at all!
Which is hard, considering the only other stories in the news at the moment are about sex offenders or child murderers. And she would be bound to take great pleasure in reminding me about that letter to "Jim'll Fix It" about wanting to go in the Tardis.

So, if I can't talk about what's in the news, what else is there to talk about other than the weather?

This is why I have decided to focus on the children and how charming and wonderful they are.

"Hello, it's me."
"Oh, it's you."
"Hello, love!"
The Aged Ps have surpassed themselves. They have picked up the phone as one Aged Being.
"So, how are you?" I ask. I immediately kick myself. This was not the opening move I had planned.
"I'm fine," says Dad.
"Well, you know . . ." Mother begins. "Not so good. What with this dreadful weather. And the news - it's nothing but shifty politicians and disgusting sex offenders, which reminds me! Didn't you once write a letter to--"
"Your grandson is doing ever so well in Latin at the moment!" I shout, in desperation.
Latin?? Why did I have to mention THAT?
"Oh, quid mira et intelligens nepos habemus!" trills Mother.
I groan softly, put my head in my hands and thank the gods that she has not yet mastered Skype as I proceed to bang my forehead quietly on the table.
"Ita vero! Est mirabilie. Est continuans familia traditionem," Dad agrees.
H-e-l-p m-e! I mouth to Not-So-Small-Boy.
"I found a magazine our grandson would like, actually," says Dad.
"Great - a wildlife one?" I ask.
"No. A Latin one," says Dad. "It's full of cartoons and stories and pictures - and it's all in Latin! Isn't that great?"
I cannot take this any more, so I pass the phone to my son.
"Hi Grandpa," he chirps. "Yes . . . yes . . . I love Latin. Did you know that turdus stupidus means stupid thrush! It's so cool - it means you can swear without actually really swearing! And "turdus" is a hilarious word for a bird! And there is this other even more hilarious word "furcifer", which sound like "fuc--"
I grab the phone back.
"So, what did you think about Ed Milliband's One Nation speech?" I ask.
I sit back, close my eyes and let the battle commence.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

It is Saturday and I am getting ready to go and give a talk at the Cheltenham Literature Festival. I would like to think that this would mean my family might treat me with a mite more respect than usual, but it is not to be.
"Morning," says Not-So-Small Boy.
"Hey! Stop waving that spoon in my face, please," I say, backing away.
"But I was only going to scoop out your ear-wax," he replies.
"Do what?"
"Yeah, I was going to scoop out your ear wax like the Vikings used to do before going into battle," my son continues eagerly.
"Erm, I hate to break it to you, but firstly I am not a Viking, and secondly I do not have enough ear wax to merit it being scooped and thirdly I am not going into battle. I am going to give a talk to fifty seven-year-olds. Actually . . ." I pause. "Maybe the two things are pretty similar, but I still don't want you scooping anything out of my ear with a dessert spoon, thanks."
"Oooh!" Not-So-Small Boy looks downcast. "But you've done your hair and put make-up on, which is kind of also what the Vikings used to do to look good when they went into battle, so you might as well have your ear wax scraped out, too," he pleads.
"No," I say firmly.
My son bangs the spoon down crossly. "I have just realised that you have lots of opinions on things that really don't matter at all," he announces.
"Like not wanting to have my ear wax scraped out with a spoon?" I say.
"Yeah. That and you don't like it when people say 'annual leave' instead of 'holiday' and you don't like swearing but you swear all the time when you are driving and--"
"Right. Have you quite finished with your character assassination?" I ask, getting up to leave. "Only I have to go now."
"Good luck," says Husband. "You'll be great."
"Huumpf," says my son. "Only if you are not patronising. You always sound patronising when you talk to little kids."
"Great," I say. "So I've got waxy ears, I have stupid opinions on things that don't matter at all, and I am patronising."
"At least there's no danger of things going to your head," says Husband.
Indeed. Out of the mouths of babes and all that.

No Peas for the Wicked

I stare glumly at the contents of the fridge as I try to think of yet another way to make our glut of courgettes and carrots into an appetitising meal which will appeal to all the family.
"I never thought I would say this," I say. "But I am sick of cooking."
"But you love it!" says Not-So-Small Boy. "You are always doing it, anyway."
"I am also always washing, ironing and sitting in traffic, but I don't love those things," I point out.
"I have never seen you washing and ironing while we are stuck in traffic," says my son with a titter.
"I have never seen you ironing full stop," says Husband with an even louder titter.
I turn to face the men in my life brandishing a monstrous courgette and a Sabatier knife in what I hope is a menacing manner. "Do you want me to stop doing all the chores?" I suggest. "I would be quite happy to go on strike altogether."
"Oh dear," says Not-So-Small Boy. "No cabbage for the evil."
"What on earth is that supposed to mean?" I ask.
Husband snorts. "Don't you mean no peas for the wicked?"
"Oh, maybe it is no peas for the wicked," says my son. "Anyway, it's what that guy Bob says."
"Which guy Bob?" Husband asks.
"You know - Bob Marley!" says our son. "The dude in A Christmas Carol."
Husband raises his eyebrows. "Ri-ight," he says. "Anyway, back to the real world. What's for supper?"
"It's not courgettes AGAIN is it?" Not-So-Small Boy howls.
"Yup," I say. I bring the knife down hard to show I mean business. "It might be no peas for the wicked. But it's definitely courgettes for the rest of us."

(Note: Check out Roger McGough's fab poem "No Peas for the Wicked". It'll raise a chuckle or two.)

Farewell, Age of Innocence

Not-So-Small Boy has a phone. At last. We held out until senior school before letting him have one. And thank goodness we did. The minute you give a child a phone, the floodgates of social politics are opened wide.
At junior school, my son did all his socialising in the playground and this was kept very separate from his home life. (For socialising read "pretending to be a lemur" or "digging holes to Australia".) Now, thanks to the phone, the socialising follows him home of an evening creating unforeseen complications.

This presents itself early in the term by the sound of Not-So-Small Boy's phone vibrating at such an alarming intensity that I fear it is about to spontaneously combust. My son is upstairs doing his homework, so I peer at the screen to see a message from an unknown number which reads: "Do you like Henry more than me?"
Strange, I think. I cannot imagine one of my son's friends asking him this. Even amongst his less-than-macho crowd, the boys would not ask each other such questions. But a girl would not ask if my son preferred a boy to her - would she? I am feeling out of my depth, so decide to tackle this head-on over supper.
"Your phone has been receiving messages non-stop this evening," I say.
"You didn't read them, did you?" Not-So-Small Boy asks.
"Er, well, I couldn't help seeing the latest one," I say carefully. "But don't worry, I've no idea who it's from."
Not-So-Small Boy leaves the table hurriedly and snatches up his phone. "Oh no!" he cries, flicking his thumb over the screen. "I'm going to kill him!"
I wait.
My son looks up. "This is someone texting me who thinks I'm someone else," he says, his face white with concern.
"Oh?" I say.
"Yeah, y'see, William is getting bullied by these boys who keep picking him up and putting him in the lockers and saying that he's gay and so in revenge when one of them asked him for Ellie's number, William gave them mine instead."
I try to unpick this. "So . . . you are getting texts from one of the bullies because he thinks you are a girl he is interested in?" I say.
"Yes! And I don't know what to do, coz if I play along I might get bullied too."
Poor boy, I think, the Age of Innocence has ended.
But I can't help having a surge of respect for my son's best friend. William - 1, Bullies - 0!

It's a Tangled Web We Weave

"I'm thinking of joining The Face Book," Mother announces.
"Oh," I reply.
What the Dickens has prompted this? Has Mother read something in the Torygraph about Trojans and taken it to mean that the Ancient World is now accessible via the web?
My mind goes into freefall as I imagine her going back through my timeline, reading the inanities I have posted for the past five years (not to mention finding her way on to this blog). All I can think is, "I must stop this. I must stop this NOW."
"I thought it would be the best way to keep in touch, since I never see you or speak to you," she presses on.
I hold my breath to prevent myself from reminding her of our eight-day stay which is still so fresh in my mind, I feel I have driven away from my childhood home only seconds ago.
"And I never get to speak to my granddaughter now that she has become" [audible shudder] "a TEENAGER."
"Ah, well she's not likely to respond on Facebook either," I say, thinking OH MY GOODNESS, IF MOTHER CATCHES EVEN A GLIMPSE OF DAUGHTER AND HER FRIENDS ON FACEBOOK WE WILL HAVE TO GET ON THE NEXT SHUTTLE TO MARS TO ESCAPE THE FALL-OUT. "And the other thing is I'm not sure you've got the time to check all the news feeds and so on," I continue.
"News Feeds?"
"Yes, and then there's all the palaver of what to stick on your wall and who to befriend or de-friend and whether or not you've been poked."
I hardly know what any of these things mean myself, so I am hoping this is jargon on the level of Dawkins-esque genetics for Mother.
"Ah," says Mother.
"And then there's the added problem that Dad turns the WiFi off after ten o'clock every night, so you would only have a limited window in the evening to update your status anyway--"
"So what exactly is The Face Book for anyway?" Mother says, cutting into my mounting hysteria.
"Oh, it's a load of nonsense really," I say. "To be honest I think you would find it rather silly. It's just banter. And chit-chat." I carefully emphasise two words I know will immediately cast a pall on the idea of joining the social network.
"What kind of - banter?" Mother says. Thank heavens. I can hear her eyes narrow as she speaks.
"Well, to give you the most recent example," I say, "there's been a lot of talk this week about the new series of Dr Who--"
"That rubbish?!" Mother spits. "Oh well, in that case. I won't bother."
Phew. That was close.
"I think I might start Twittering instead."

It's Your Funeral

In the days before Daughter starts at her new school, we have some soul-searching conversations. They range from "What exactly is dandruff?" through to what sort of funeral we might like.

"When I die, what will you do for my funeral?" she asks Not-So-Small Boy.
"Oh, I don't know. What would you like me to do?" he says.
Daughter thinks for a minute and then says, "Well, I think I would like to have a funeral down on the rocks in Cornwall."
"Oh, that's boring," her brother scoffs. "At my funeral I want loads and loads of animals. And balloons," he adds.
Daughter rolls her eyes.
"What about you, Mum?" she asks. "What would you like at your funeral?"
"I don't suppose it matters much, seeing as I won't be there," I say. "But I can tell you where I would like to be when I get old."
Daughter rolls her eyes again.
"You already are," she mutters.
"Thanks."
Not-So-Small Boy shuffles over on the sofa and nudges me. "Go on, tell us, Mum."
"OK. Well, I would like to be somewhere where I can see running water every day," I say.
"Oh, that's easy," says Not-So-Small Boy.
"It is?"
"Yeah! I'll just put you in a chair next to the kitchen sink and leave the tap running."

It's great to know I will be in such safe and loving hands in my dotage.

Dad's Inner Domestic Goddess Goes Wild

With Mother in hospital, Dad does not seem to know what to do with himself. He is looking pale and drawn and bumbles through the house, creating a complicated new set of rules for how to carry out normally mundane domestic tasks. He hovers at my elbow while I do the washing up.
"I find if you soak all the plates for thirty-seven minutes before loading the dishwasher, they tend to come out cleaner," he tells me earnestly, watching as I hurl the breakfast things into the machine.
"But if you soak them, you may as well not put them in the machine," I point out.
Dad frowns. "I would rather do things properly," he says. He bends to unstack the dirty plates, fills the washing-up bowl with hot soapy water and lowers the crockery gently in, as though bathing a baby. "And wipe the grease out of the pan with kitchen paper before you scrub it," he directs, as I attack the grill pan with a Brillo pad.
I put down the pan and the pad, step away from the sink and say, "We'll get out of your way for a bit."
Not-So-Small Boy and I spend the morning in the pool, he inhaling as much chlorine as he can whilst teaching himself backwards somersaults, me thinking about Mother in hospital while Dad is left to hoover the inside of the washing machine.
We arrive back to find Dad marinading the entire contents of the fridge.
"Blimey, Dad! Have you invited the whole street for lunch?" I stare open-mouthed at the plates of food, neatly lined up on the kitchen surface.
"No, no. I just know that you both like different things and I'm going to do a barbecue, so I thought I would prepare a sort of smörgåsbord," he says, emphasising the Swedish word with his most authentic accent.
"Lovely," I say.
Not-So-Small Boy is preparing to pull a face at the feast laid out before him. Nothing is left in its recognisable state. Even the cucumber has been peeled, laced with vinegar, salt and pepper and arranged in a beautiful fan on the plate.
"Isn't there anything NORMAL to eat?" my son hisses. I shake my head firmly and suggest he goes on his Nintendo for a while.
"Dad," I say. "I know you're worried about Mum and everything, but she's going to be fine. Why don't you have a rest - you don't need to go to so much trouble for us. You'll wear yourself out. I'll finish preparing lunch. "
Dad looks at me doubtfully. "I'm not sure you know what to do," he says.
I think over the seventeen years of married life, the thirteen years of parenthood; I consider the forty-two years of being this man's daughter and take another look at the fifty-six plates of food in front of me. I conclude that nothing in my life experience has quite prepared me for seeing my Dad go into meltdown in quite such a manner.
"No, you're right," I say. "I'll leave you to it."
I never thought I'd say this, but maybe things were better with Mother at home.

The Day of Reckoning

It is Monday Morning. The Monday Morning. The one we have all been warned about.
Husband and I creep out of the house at first light (which is not difficult, as the M25 starts up outside the bedroom window well before that). This first light is very light indeed, as all traces of cloud have disappeared, the Gulf Stream having predictably moved just as Mother is going in for her operation. I almost comment on the fact, but stop myself just in time. Marital good behaviour between me and Husband is wearing considerably thin after 48 hours of the Ageds. I have no desire for him to use his ultimate weapon: to tell me that I am "turning into y'mother".
I need not worry, we are doomed to have a row before he leaves, the tension having mounted to seismic level.
As if on cue, I approach a roundabout and Husband yells, "LOOK OUT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
"SHUT UP AND DON'T TELL ME HOW TO DRIVE!" I yell back.
I drop Husband at the station in stony silence and grit my teeth for the scene that will be awaiting me back at the house.

When I return, Not-So-Small Boy has already retreated to the Pink Sofa (still covered in a protective rug) and is watching TV. He turns and gives me a knowing look and says, "Grandma is ready to leave."
So am I, I think, as I make my way to the kitchen.
But the scene I am greeted by affects me unexpectedly.
Mother is sitting at the kitchen table, drumming its surface repeatedly with her fingers and chewing her lip. Her eyes are red and watery and she looks as though she has not slept a wink. Dad is pacing and washing and drying up everything in sight.
A surge of sadness mixed with guilt and anxiety overcomes me. I draw Mum to me in a rough hug and kiss her head.
"It's going to be all right," I murmur. "It'll all be over soon and then you'll feel better."
The words come from nowhere. I am sharply aware of the scales of time moving, millimetre by millimetre, to a tipping point from which they will not return. The roles are in the process of reversing.
I close my eyes as I hug my mum and Husband's voice comes to me, unbidden.
"You are turning into y'Mother."

Chapter Four of the Aged Ps Holiday Special

It is the weekend, and Husband has come down to join me and Not-So-Small Boy at the Aged Ps'. Mother has often commented that "It would be nice to see your husband once in a while. I'm beginning to think he doesn't think much of us," so it is with some bafflement that news of his arrival is greeted with the words:
"When is he leaving?"
"I - er - Monday morning, I suppose," I say.
"Monday morning? MONDAY MORNING?" cries Mother. "But that's when I'm going in for my operation. He can't be here when I have to go in for my operation."
"It's OK, I'm sure he'll be leaving really early," I assure her. Mother is looking rather wild, I notice. I take a deep breath. "I will make sure he leaves before you do. I will drive him to the station myself. Now, how about I cook supper tonight to give you a rest?"
Mother glances anxiously about the kitchen. "I don't know what food I've got - if I've got to feed Him as well," she says pointedly.
"It's fine. I'll go shopping--"
Too late, Mother is already rootling aggressively through the fridge, chucking things over her shoulder as she gives me a running commentary on what is "going off" or "needs using up".

I collect Husband and warn him on the way to the Aged Ps' that Mother is liable to explode at any moment, "So tread softly," I say.
He and Not-So-Small Boy behave impeccably, helping me get supper and laying the table out in the garden. The Ageds come out to inspect.
"That looks lovely," says Dad appreciatively.
"We're not eating outside, are we?" says Mother, eyeing the cloudy sky. "I mean, I know they say the Gulf Stream is moving north, but knowing my luck that won't be until I'm in hospital." She fixes Husband with a steely glare. "I'm going to have an operation on Monday, you know."
Husband sets his jaw. "I know," he says.

Supper goes smoothly, with not a spot of rain to marr the proceedings. Mother smiles and thanks me and says how nice it is to all be together. The Ageds finish their meal and Mother announces she is going to put her feet up and watch the cricket Dad has recorded for her.
All's well that ends well, I think.
But then--
"I, er, I don't think I did record it actually," says Dad sheepishly.
"WHAT?" Mother shouts. "YOU DIDN'T RECORD THE CRICKET? WHY NOT??!! YOU STUPID *&%$£?!"
Dad cowers as Mother chases him into the house, shaking her fists at him and using extremely colourful vocabulary.
I cover Not-So-Small Boy's ears while Husband looks on in amusement. He turns to me and says with a grin, "You wouldn't think she was having an operation on Monday, would you?"

Chapter Three of the Aged Ps Holiday Special

Lovely Sis has to leave this morning. She has a mammoth train journey to do with her two little ones, so she has to start off after breakfast.
"I suppose you've had enough of us," says Mother, arms folded defensively.
"No, no, not at all," says Lovely Sis. She is crawling around on her hands and knees, giving the house a final professional mine-sweep for miniscule Lego pieces.
Mother sighs. "Well, you haven't stayed for long," she says.
Not-So-Small Boy frowns and whispers to me, "I thought Grandma wanted them to go. I thought she said that it was Total and Utter Chaos here and that she didn't have enough room for us all?"
"Shall we go for a swim later?" I ask him, in a lame attempt at changing the subject.

Mother returns from ferrying Lovely Sis and her brood to the station. 
"So can we go swimming now?" asks Not-So-Small Boy.
I look out of the window at the gathering clouds and curse myself for not thinking of a better way of diverting my son from offending my mother earlier that morning.
But I am going to have to do something with him as he has become worryingly bouncy, having been kept inside for twenty-four hours. He is, in fact, performing a particularly bouncy routine perilously close to the infamous Pink Sofa.
Mother leaps in between him and the precious piece of furniture. "Don't jump on the--!"
I cut in. "He's just getting a bit cabin-feverish. But it's OK," I reassure her. "I'll take him to the pool. You stay here and have a rest."
"Why would I want to have a rest in the middle of the morning?" snaps Mother.
"I, er, I just thought, what with your operation and everything--"
"Don't be stupid. I'll come with you."
Which is how I find myself swimming up and down the outdoor pool under a lowering, grey sky, trying to think of yet another variation on the game "let's swim under water for as long as we can without drowning" while Mother swims length after length alongside a woman of about the same age as her. Occasionally I catch snippets of their conversation.
"So they all come to visit and once and make a mess and it's frankly exhausting."
"Oh, I know! It's dreadful . . ."
"And I'm having an operation next week . . ."
"Oh, my husband had to have his feet done and they kept him in for weeks . . ."
"And the doctor said, 'I can't tell you to have this operation, I can only advise you . . .' And what good is that?"
"Oh I know! Doctors . . . they don't make you feel very good about yourself, do they?"

"Well, that was a lovely swim," says Mother once we are out of the water. "And I met such a nice lady."
"Oh, I thought you two knew each other," I say.
"No, no, but it was just nice to meet someone who is actually interested. I told her all about the fact that I am having an operation next week, and she was so kind." She glared at me pointedly.
Not-So-Small Boy and I make our excuses and go to have a shower. I am hanging up the towels and getting our shampoo when I feel an insistent tug on my arm. It is Not-So-Small Boy, trying to drag me away to see something.
"Come and look and this!" he says in hushed tones. He gestures to a class which is going on in the indoor pool. "What are they DOING?!" my son asks, his eyes wide.
I stifle a giggle. "I think that is Grandma's Aqua-aerobics exercise class," I say. "She would normally have gone today, but she didn't want to because of her operation."
"Exercise class?" my son echoes. "But they aren't DOING ANYTHING!" he protests. "They are just floating. Anyone can do that."
"Ssh!" I hiss, as Mother comes to find us.
"Oh thank goodness I didn't go to Aqua-aerobics today," she says, looking in on the class. "I feel worn out just watching them, don't you?" 
I glance back at the rows of silver-haired, rotund sixty-somethings as they bob merrily up and down on coloured woggles to the tune of "Tears of a Clown". I picture Mother doing this while telling everyone about how her daughters never come and visit and when they do they make a mess and how they just don't understand that she is having an operation next week . . .
"Yup," I nod. "It makes you feel like lying down and never getting up again."

Chapter Two of the Aged Ps Holiday Special

I wake up, bleary-eyed and fractious after a night broken on the hour every hour by the sound of traffic roaring past beneath my bedroom window. For a second I think "I have spent the whole night on the M25!" Then I remember: I am at the Aged Ps' and I am taking Daughter to a residential course today, which is closer to the Aged Ps than to our own house. This is the principal reason why I have committed myself to eight days at their house ("committed" feels like a strangely appropriate word, under the circumstances). I leave Not-So-Small Boy and his cousins quietly watching TV; they are sitting on the forbidden Pink Sofa which now has a woollen rug spread over it to prevent these apparently out-of-control grandchildren from wrecking it.
"See you in a couple of hours," I say to Mother. "If you go out, text me and I'll come and join you."
"Yes, yes," says Mother, eyeing her small relatives anxiously. "I hope they won't spill anything on the Pink Sofa. I'm having an operation next week, I can't cope with any extra stress you know."
"I know," I say. "See you later."

I come back to the house two hours later to find the house is empty. I check my phone. No text. I call Lovely Sis, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. I envisage her juggling two small children and an enormous bag full of spare nappies, spare clothes and spare patience. I phone Dad instead.
"Hello, love! Where are you?"
"I was about to ask you the same thing," I say.
"We're in the park, by the sandpit, having lots of fun. Can you drive down, though, as I think it's going to rain?"
I get back into the car and drive down the High Street at the pace of a snail which has lost the will to go at a snail's pace. After a lot of steering wheel banging and talking to myself I see the reason why I am driving slower than even my two-year-old niece walks. There has been an accident and the road to the park is blocked. I am forced the long way around the one-way system and park in an over-priced car park and then run to the park to meet the others, who are now convened in the swimming pool cafe.
"You took your time," says Mother.
"Yes," I say. "Can we find somewhere to have lunch now, please?"
"We're having it here," says Mother.
I look around me. The air is so thick I am sure it would not pass the basic standards of environmental health and the menu is so deep fried it clogs my arteries just to read it.
"Here?" I say.
"Yes. What is the matter with here?" says Mother.
"How about everything?" I say.
"Ah, now, let's not get cross with one another," says Dad.
"How about we go to Pizza Express?" says Lovely Sis.
"Yay! Pizza Express!" says Not-So-Small Boy.
"Humpf," says Mother. "I don't know why you have to boss me around so much. I'm having an operation next week you know--"
"We know," chorus Dad, Not-So-Small Boy and I.
"Which is why Pizza Express will be so much better for you," says Lovely Sis, patiently. "You can have a salad there."
Lovely, Lovely Sis. You have saved the day again.

Bumper Action-Packed Summer Holiday Aged Ps Special: Chapter One

Star Wars vs Classics For All

We arrive at the Aged Ps' house, hot and flustered after enduring an extra hour of that particular brand of hell which only the M25 can offer.
"You took your time," says Mother.
"Hello, lovely to see you," I say. "Where's Dad?"
"Y'father is at Classics For All up at the Mansion House," says Mother. "I was invited too, but I didn't want to leave you all here unsupervised."
"Oh, we would have been all right," I say.
"No you wouldn't. It's total chaos here," says Mother. "We haven't really got enough room for everyone."
Lovely Sis and her children are staying too. After many complaints from Mother that "I never see you these days" we made a pact to come down together.
But now the reality of a house full of Lego, Playmobil, dolls in various states of undress (and in some cases decapitation) has hit Mother hard. It is not a scene that bears much resemblance to the happy picture she had in her head of everyone sitting round, watching the kids play quietly, stopping briefly to cuddle their Grandmother and tell her how much they love her.
"Auntie Anna! Auntie Anna!" My nephew hurls himself at me in an enthusiastic embrace and explodes into a coughing and sneezing fit, wiping snot down my front.
"They both have colds of course," says Mother. "Typical. I'm having an operation next week and I don't want to get a cold."
"They're not infectious," says Lovely Sis, with infinite patience. She expertly scoops up a litre of snot and disposes of it cleanly and efficently while preparing a snack for one child and dressing a Barbie doll for the other.
Daughter, Not-So-Small Boy and I are swiftly dragooned into a complicated Star Wars Lego-building session in which I am told by a five-year-old that I am "not very good at this". He is a perceptive child.
"No, Auntie Anna. That piece is the wrong colour. And this is Auntie D2. Stop calling it a robot! And I am going to be Dark Vader. OK?"
After much eye-rolling on the part of my nephew, the Lego is complete and the battles commence.
"Honestly, you are just like y'father," says Mother, watching me fire ammunition at "Auntie D2" and make asthmatic attempts at imitating "Dark Vader". "You always were obessed with Dr Who."
"Actually, this isn't Dr Who," says my nephew, shooting his grandmother a withering look. "You are all a bit rubbish at this, aren't you?"
Mother sighs dramatically. "Well, it is obvious no one needs me. I mean, I am the one having an operation next week, but no one seems interested."
"Watch out!" shouts Nephew, as his two-year-old sister decides she is not shy of us any more and careers across the room, knocking the Lego flying.
"Don't sit on the pink sofa!" shouts Mother.
"I hate Lego," says Daughter.
"I hate you," says Not-So-Small Boy.
Just as the War of the Worlds is about to erupt in the Aged Ps' living room, a cheery voice booms, "Hello!"
"Dad!" Lovely Sis and I shout in unison.
"Grandpa!" yell four grandchildren.
"Oh, it's you," says Mother.
"I've had a wonderful time, drinking wine and talking to the author Tom Holland about The Homeric Tradition and also how Sophocles would view the modern banking system. Fascinating," says Dad, slurring his words slightly. "Brandy anyone?"
"You - met - Tom - Holland?" breathes Mother.
Tom Holland is, in Mother's eyes, the sexiest thing on two legs: a young(ish) man who loves Classics and has had books published about the Romans.
"Yes," beams Dad. "But I'm sure you've had much more fun here."
Mother snarls.
Lovely Sis and I scoop up our kids and leave the room. Fast.
This is going to be the longest eight days of my life, I think, as I listen to Mother tearing strips off Dad. I regret not taking up the offer of a brandy while I had the chance.

Another Roman Holiday for the Aged Ps

It has been quiet for the past week as the Aged Ps have been on holiday. Again. But now they are back and have left three messages in the space of an hour, the tone of which becomes increasingly panicky when it is clear no one is picking up.
"Hello, it's y'Mother. We're back from a lovely holiday in Lake Garda. It really was very relaxing."
[How nice for you. It has rained non-stop here and we have all been working.]
"Hello. I rang to tell you we're back but you are obviously out."
[I know you did. We have been busy.]
"Hello. Hello? Hello! Where are you? We are back!"
[All right! All right! I surrender!]
I have fifteen minutes before I have to drop off one child and pick up the other before then taking the dog and cats to the vet, so I call.
"Hello! I got your messages," I say.
"Oh, it's you," says Mother. "We got back hours ago."
"I know. Like I say, I got your messages. So, how was it?"
[off-stage to Dad] "It's your eldest daughter. *mutters* At last."
There is a familiar clattering noise as Dad picks up the other phone. "Hello, love! We had a lovely time thanks. The weather was great--"
"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that," Mother chips in.
"Ahem, so apart from the weather?" I ask, forcing myself not to mention the storms and fallen trees and cut-off phone lines in the UK. "What about the friends you went with? How did that go?"
Mother takes and deep breath and says, "Well . . . !"
Oh, foolish, foolish me! Why do I never learn?! Quick, change the subject - anything, anything - even Tony Blair would be a better topic of conversation . . . Too late--
"I wouldn't exactly call them friends," says Mother. "I mean, John's all right, but his wife is a pain. Jane the Pain, I've decided to call her."
Original.
"She's not--" Dad tries.
"She is! She never wants to go and look at any interesting Roman Remains. She wants to sit and drink. And she goes on and on about her aches and pains, which is so tedious. Apparently she had a problem with her piles. Disgusting! No one wants to hear about that, do they? I mean, take the problems I've been having Down There - it's agony, I'm telling you. But I don't go on and on about it, do I? And then there's y'father's cholesterol. But we just don't talk about these things. Not like her. And the amount she drinks! Which reminds me, did I leave my G & T in the kitchen, Father?"
"Er, I think you finished it," says Dad.
"No, I didn't! You must have drunk it by mistake--!"
"SO!" I shout. "Anything else about the holiday?"
"All I can say is, it's the last time I go away with people I know," says Mother. "The good thing about going on an organised tour is that you are with like-minded people who want to do the same things as you, but afterwards you say goodbye and you never need see them again."
And I am sure the feeling is mutual, I think.
But I don't say so. I wouldn't dare.

Best Laid Plans

The Day of the Dragons has dawned. And poor Small Boy has been up since dawn, pacing and planning.
"I can't eat anythin'," he moans at breakfast. "My tummy is already full - of butterflies."
His pale little face is etched with worry as he bends over his carefully inscribed checklist of things that are needed to ensure the smooth running of the petting zoo (catchily named "Petz Corner") at the school Dragons' Den Fair this afternoon.
"You will remember to get the dog cage out of the shed, won't you Mum?" he asks, for the seventy-third time this week.
Suddenly there is a commotion outside the kitchen door: loud squawking and an inordinate amount of hissing. I rush to open the door and find the cats are producing the hissing whilst prowling around the boxes we use to transport them to the vets. The squawking is coming from inside the boxes. The cats are evidently deriving great pleasure from the spectacle of these small birds crammed together into the boxes, which, when the cats are forced into them for their yearly visit to the vet, cause Psycho Cat to pee herself and Jet to howl with misery. "We feel your pain and we are enjoying it," they seem to be saying.
The Dog, who hates to miss out on any excitement, chooses this moment to rush out and stick her nose excitedly up Psycho Cat's bum.
I close the door on the scene and return to my anxious son.
"Why have you put the chickens inside the cat boxes, exactly?" I ask.
"Duh, s'obvious," says Small Boy with an exaggerated eye roll.
"Is it? I thought you were using the dog cage to keep them in - it's a lot bigger," I point out.
"Mu-um!" wails Small Boy. "They would rattle around in that! We have to transport them in the cat boxes and then transfer them to the dog cage once we are at school. That's why I need your help this morning."
I am impressed. He has thought everything through. Mind you, he has been Skyping his Best Friend William about this event on a daily basis, talking through every angle of this venture. I tell myself I can leave Small Boy at school with four Pekins in the sure and certain knowledge that his plans are meticulously laid out and perfectly thought through.
"Fine!" I say. "So you've got nothing to be nervous about. Sit down and have some breakfast."

We arrive at school to find the teacher looking flappier than the flightiest hen. The room set aside for Petz Corner is already full of over-excited children peering at frightened guinea pigs and squealing at a quivering tortoise. The teacher's eyes widen with alarm at the sight of the squawking cat boxes.
"I think you should put the chickens outside," says the teacher firmly.
"But we can't!" protests Small Boy. "It's raining and their feathers will get wet."
It is indeed raining, and a water-logged Pekin is not a pretty sight.
Luckily Molly arrives to save the day. Her pet hamster was due to feature in Petz Corner until he prematurely and inconveniently died, so, having no animal husbandry to attend to, Molly has taken charge of logistics instead. Molly is good at logistics.
"Don't panic!" she says. "I have brought tarpaulin, so even if the chickens kick their poo out of the cage, it won't go on the carpet."
"Poo?" echoes the increasingly alarmed teacher. "No one said anything about poo."
He is clearly regretting not asking enough questions in the Dragons' Den briefing earlier in the term.
At last the Pekins are extracted from the cat boxes, settled carefully in the beautifully clean sawdust-strewn floor of the dog cage, and all is well.
"William!" cries Small Boy, espying his Best Friend. "I thought we said you wouldn't bring all of yours!" He is pointing, aghast, at his Best Friend who is setting down a box the size of a coffin. He lifts the lid and proudly reveals a potpourri of poultry in all shapes, sizes and colours. "We haven't got room for all those!" Small Boy protests. (Though, by the look on his face I think he is more concerned about the fact that his poultry seem rather, well, paltry, in comparison with William's.)
I am about to leave them to it, when the second commotion of the day starts up. This time it is chicken-on-chicken action. (I hestitate to get involved, remembering the last Skype argument William and Small Boy had. It went something along the lines of Small Boy berating his Best Friend for wanting to bring his cockerel, King Louis, into the Petz Corner. "You can't!" Small Boy had snapped. "King Louis always tries to hump my Pekin Titch and we can't have any humping in the Dragons' Den.")
I note with relief that the noise is not being caused by such unsavoury activity, but is in fact a spot of good old-fashioned hen-pecking.
"William!" cries Small Boy. "You've put your Pekin in with mine! And she's pecking mine! Get her out!"
At that point I do decide finally to leave them to it. I am now less sure than I was at the start of the day that this venture will run like clockwork after all. And as for Small Boy and William, there appears to be a large storm cloud approaching in the direction of their friendship.
I drive home, the phrase "Best Laid Plans" echoing ominously in my mind . . . 

My Nice Weekend

Daughter is revising.
She is making it clear to anyone who will listen that this constitutes the End of Life as We Know It. She has also stolen my desk chair and all my pens, used sheaths of my computer paper and interrupts my work constantly by slouching into the kitchen while foraging for food and sighing a lot behind a curtain of unwashed hair.
"It's not fair," she wails at regular intervals. "Revision sucks!"
I decide to cheer her up by cooking a family lunch which has been carefully chosen to contain a selection of her favourite things. I think of it as a sacrifice offered to appease the twin gods of Sulk and Despair. It seems to work for a few minutes: the offerings are consumed heartily, and laughter and jokes are shared, but as soon as the spoon clatters into the bowl a loud sigh is uttered.
"While I was eating that ice cream, my life was good," declaims Daughter. "But now I have to get back to work, so my life is rubbish again."
Husband and I exchange looks.
"I'll do the washing up," I say.
Daughter curls her lip at me. "Really?" she says, scorn and faux-Americana oozing from every letter of the word. (I think this is meant to mean something along the lines of: "Do you really think that is going to make me feel any better about the fact I have to REVISE?")
"And then," I continue, "I think I might sit and read the paper for a bit."
"Oh wow," says Daughter. "Get you and your nice weekend." She flicks her hair and leaves the room, her curse hanging in the air like a bad smell.
Alea iacta est, as the Aged Ps might say.

The curse takes effect, just as I am washing the last plate and am thinking, with a smile, of the cup of tea I will drink while sitting on the sofa with the newspaper spread across my lap.
I glance out of the window and see . . . the Dog racing to far side of the garden. That looks odd, I think, as she sniffs at something and--
"NOOOOOO!" I yell.
Too late, the Dog has rolled. And she only ever rolls in one thing. Fox poo.
I hide my head in my hands, and the vision of sofa, tea and newspaper disappears like the sun behind a Bank Holiday rain cloud.
The Dog returns, joyfully, to share her au de chien with the rest of the house, rubbing herself against me and the furniture as she passes. I run, screaming, to grab dog-shampoo, dog-lead and the jet hose.
Then just as I am rinsing the Dog's head and leaping to one side to avoid being sprayed by the Dog shaking herself on to me, Psycho Cat pounces on our one friendly robin. I dash to intervene, hose still in one hand, but am, again, too late. The bird is fluttering helplessly, one leg and one one wing broken. I hesitate as I try to decide whether to finish the dastardly deed myself or leave it to the cat, when through the kitchen door, I spot Jet, the other cat, who has leapt on to the remains of the roast chicken, her yellow eyes shining with glee.
"ARGH!" I yell, throwing the hose to the ground. "Someone HELP ME!"
Husband appears, grinning and covered from head to toe in stinking brown gloop.
"What on earth--?" I gawp.
"I was just making some weed compost," he explains cheerfully. "What's the matter?"
"The animals - dead bird - filthy fox poo - roast chicken!" I stammer.
"Ah," says Husband, surveying the scene. "So much for you and your nice weekend, eh?"

The Aged Ps Go 3D

The Aged Ps are back from their foray into the Roman sewers of Germany and are full of zest and get-up-and-go.
"It's me. Y'mother."
"Hello. How was the holiday."
"Go on, tell her!"
"Oh hello, Dad."
I am caught in yet another telephonic pincer movement from the Ageds.
"Oooh, yes! Well, guess what!" says Mother.
I sigh. Waiting for Godot might be a more profitable way of spending the evening than waiting for this stereophonic wittering to make sense. I decide to play along and guess what the blazes they are going on about.
"Erm, the sewers still had real live Romans in," I say.
"Don't be so stupid. You watch far too much Doctor Who," says Mother. "I blame y'father for introducing that drivel to you at a young age--"
"All right, so I can't guess what," I cut in.
"What?"
"She can't guess what," Dad explains helpfully. "About the you-know-what!"
"Oooh yes! The you-know-what!" squeals Mother. She takes a deep breath and I imagine the twinkling in her eyes as she girlishly prepares to unveil her latest news: "WE'VE GONE 3D!"
"Well, strictly speaking we have always been 3D, but what your mother means is--"
"WE'VE GOT A NEW TELLY AND IT'S 3D AND - AND - EVERYTHING!"
I hold the receiver slightly away from my ear and shout, "That's nice!"
"So now you will have to bring the grandchildren to come and see us, because our TV is better than yours," sasy Mother triumphantly. "Small Boy will be able to watch all his wildlife programmes IN 3D! And the animals will JUMP OUT AT HIM! It really is amazing you know, this 3D. And do you know you get to wear specs as well?"
How the Aged Ps will manage 3D glasses when they already have glasses for reading, glasses for driving, glasses for swimming, glasses for deciphering Latin inscriptions on the walls of Roman sewers and glasses for seeing whether it is gin or water they are drinking, I do not know.
"And they are BATTERY OPERATED!" Dad chips in.
"Battery operated glasses? What on earth--?" I begin.
"We have no idea why they are battery operated. In fact, we have no idea how to work the TV yet!" says Mother, giggling at the outrageousness of it all. "But I leave all that to y'father, as you know."
"Yes," I say.
"But the problem is, all I can do at the moment is set it up on the analogue setting," says Dad, his voice dropping to the low, serious I-used-to-be-a-lawyer pitch he uses when any technical language is involved. "And I haven't worked out all the business with the hard-drive storage and the internet streaming. But it's OK because we haven't gone digital yet."
"So," I say. "What you're saying is that you can't actually watch anything in 3D yet and you can't record anything or watch any of the digital channels?"
"NO!" shrieks Mum. "Isn't it hilarious?"
I take a moment to picture the Aged Ps sitting on The Pink Sofa (the one that shall not be sat on by anyone who dares not sit on it correctly, thereby failing to appreciate the importance of it as a central feature in the Aged Ps' lives). There they are, side by side, gin and tonics in hand, battery-operated 3D glasses on, earnestly peering at a programme on analogue BBC1 (which is still very much in 2D) and wondering why it's all gone blurry.
"Yes," I say. "Hilarious."