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?"