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 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.