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?"