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 . . . 

The Pet Shop Boys

Small Boy barrels out of school at top speed.
"I need to get home quick so I can Skype William!" he yells, bashing me in the back of the legs with his rucksack.
"Why do you want to Skype someone you've just spent the whole day with?" I ask.
"More like why would you want to look at that boy's face any longer than you actually have to?" comments Daughter, scathingly.

“Well,” says Small Boy, putting on his what-I’m-about-to-say-is-terribly-important voice. “We have to Skype so we can plan what we are doing for the Dragons’ Den."

"I'm sorry?" I am already losing the thread of this conversation.

"Dragon's Den," repeats Small Boy. "We have to get into teams and decide what we are going to pitch to the Dragons to make money for the end of term fair, and me and William, right, we are going to pitch the totally fantastic idea of a Petting Zoo!”

I hold my breath and wait for him to tell me this is another of their make-believe games, like the time they both came running out of school and announced they were opening a Real Life Zoo in our back garden with “real lions and seals and giraffes and everything” which they were going to get from Longleat "cos that Lord Bath guy has far too many already".

“A petting zoo?” says Daughter, giving him her most contemptuous of looks.

“Yes, like, you know – a zoo of pets!” says Small Boy.

“You’re telling me that school has given you permission to bring in your pets? To the actual school premises?” I ask him.

Small Boy waves his hands impatiently at me. “They haven’t yet. But they will,” he says ominously. “And anyway we are going to make loads of money out of it,” he adds.
“Hang on a minute," I say, as it dawns on me that he is serious about taking our pets in, "you can't take the dog and cats! They would hate it - well, the cats would.”

The last time I took the cats anywhere Psycho Cat peed in her cat box and looked like a drowned and particularly smelly rat by the time we reached our destination, and the other one made such horrendous noises I had to turn the radio up full blast to stop myself from having a panic attack and crashing the car. As for the dog, the idea of bringing in our over-enthusiastic Labrador who will not sit still if even one child is in sight, let alone 300, and whose bowels are not the most predictable--

“NO! Of course not,” says Small Boy, shaking his head in despair. “I’m taking the chickens in.”
Good grief. “And, dare I ask, what is William bringing in?”

“His chickens.”

“So this is a chicken zoo rather than a petting zoo,” I say.

“No, deerrrr, because Ellie is bringing in her tortoise and Molly is bringing in her hamster and Maeve is - well, Maeve isn't actually bringing anything in obviously, as she doesn't have any pets, but she's going to help William with his lambs which he is also bringing in,” says Small Boy.
“I see.”

“And Ollie has said that I can rent his guinea pigs for the day for £1.20 each.”

“So you’re already in debt before you’ve even started,” I point out.

"Mu-uuum!" Small Boy protests. "You are not really getting the point of this whole Dragons' Den thing, are you?"
No, I don't believe I am to be honest. But when has that ever stopped Small Boy and William when they are on a roll?

The Message is Clear: Ignore the Cats at Your Peril

There has been no time to blog of late. I could put this down to the deadlines I've been working to. But the truth of the matter is that every single member of my family has been unbelievably needy of late. All right, so I admit that there may be a correlation between the two. It's true that I have had my head in the clouds and have ignored the laundry, the shopping and the housework and that this behaviour is not conducive to looking after my family. Or the animals. Especially the animals.

The cats have demonstrated their desire for attention in a number of ways, ranging from the disturbing to the downright weird. They have tried the more subtle approach of bringing me a selection of rodents in varying stages of dismemberment (message: This is what we will do to you if you don't notice our existence). But I am deaf and blind to this, as they have done it many times before.

They have launched a concerted attack on the stair carpet just below my study (message: We'll keep unravelling this until you fall at our feet). I am less deaf and blind to this and am certainly more vocal, but they are the losers as all that happens is that I scoop them up and tip them out into the garden.

But the latest show of protest, discovered this morning, is enough to make me realise they mean business. Overnight they have taken the fat balls from the bird table, crunched on them, spat them out and left the slimey remains just outside the front door where I can conveniently slip on them and do myself an injury. (message: Things have gone too far. We have decided: you must die.)

I go outside to inspect the crime scene and attempt to read the evidence. The fat balls were contained in a plastic dispenser, supposedly to prevent anything but a bird to be able to get at them. This dispenser was hanging from a hook on the side of the bird table. This morning the contraption is lying on the ground, the lid has been removed, one fat ball has been expertly extracted and the remains are smeared over the patio in a cleverly laid death trap. But most startling of all is the realisation of what ninja-like moves the cats must have made to release the dispenser from the table in the first place, for rather than simply jump on to the table and bash at the tube until it fell, they have clearly employed considerable dexerity in dismantling the whole shebang. The beam of wood on which the tube was hanging has been prised away from the main body of the bird table and is now on the ground, nails lethally sticking up skywards; a second death trap in case the first fails, perhaps?

Something winds itself softly around my legs. I look down to see Psycho Cat, blinking up at me slowly and deliberately.
"Raaaoooow?" she says.
"Grrrrr," comes the answer from the wall above my head. It is Jet, Psycho Cat's sister.
It is clear what they are thinking. The Fat Ball Plan failed. Time for the Pincer Attack.

Dread and Breakfast

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

Quantitative Easing, or How To Get What You Really Want

Small Boy is sitting in the armchair in the kitchen reading Country Smallholdings magazine and humming the tune to "Crazy In Love" by Beyonce while tapping his foot vigorously to the beat.
I choose to ignore the choice of song, but am curious as to where he has got the magazine from. My son has always been an afficionado of the RSPB magazine and BBC Wildlife, but this is the first time Country Smallholdings has made an appearance in our house. I am a little worried to see he is flicking through articles about keeping pygmy goats. At least he has given up pestering me for terrapins, which was last week's craze.
"Where did you get that magazine from?" I ask casually.
"William," he answers, just as casually.
"Oh?"
I feel a stab of panic. William is much loved in our house and is Small Boy's best friend, but that does not lessen the murmurings of disquiet that accompany the mention of his name, paired as it usually is with some new hare-brained scheme to increase the animal population in our house. William's family have a smallholding which is, quite simply, the envy of Small Boy. It is an envy which consumes him. William has daily access to pigs, cows, ponies, chickens, quail, a Harris hawk, a cat and a dog. William has thus become the benchmark by which Small Boy measures our own animal husbandry, which of course pales in comparison.
"You know this Quality Veezin' they keep going on about," Small Boy says suddenly, breaking into my anxious thoughts.
My mind does a couple of backflips as it attempts to translate.
"Oh, you mean 'quantitative easing'?" I say, as the light dawns.
"That's the one," says Small Boy. "It's very interesting how the banks are going to be printing loads of new money notes, but what I want to know is--"
"Hang on!" I interrupt. "That's not quite what's happening."
"Yes it is," Small Boy contradicts me indignantly. "You said that the bank is going to Create More Money to Solve The Crisis. You said!" he protests. "And if they are going to do that, then I want to know if I can get a rise in my pocket money."
"No," I say.
"But! What! Hey! But that's not faaaaiiiiiir!" Small Boy wails. "If you are getting more money then why shouldn't I?"
"I am not getting more money! No one is. You see--" I begin.
"Well, what on earth is the point of printing more if no one is going to get any then?" says Small Boy with disgust.
"It's not as though you need any more, is it love?" I point out. "The last time you counted up your pocket money you seemed to be doing pretty well."
"But I don't have enough to buy what I really want, though!" he protests, waving the magazine at me ominously.
I peer anxiously over his shoulder at the pictures. "What exactly have you got your eye on?" I ask.
"Well, I think that if I just had another say, hundred pounds or so," he says carelessly, "I could afford one of these coops." He points to a luxury two-storey chicken house.
"I quite fancy that myself," I said, impressed. "I could use it as an office."
"Don't be stupid," he berates me with a withering look, "it's for Marans, obviously. 'Cept," he adds thoughtfully, "I don't really want Marans cos they're too big. But a chicken house like this one would fit hundreds of Pekins!" he brightens.
"No," I say firmly. "No more chickens."
I feel the three hens are living on borrowed time as it is. I had to prise Psycho Cat away from the edge of the run yesterday, as she was licking her lips and getting perilously close.
"All right then - what about an incubator?" Small Boy is not giving up easily tonight. "William says it's really easy to hatch your own eggs and then you get really really cute fluffy chicks!" he puts on his best pleading, baby voice in an attempt to appeal to my softer side.
"NO!" I am getting annoyed now. "I am not letting you hatch chicks and you know very well why not!"
"Is it because you don't want a cockerel?" Small Boy says. He is getting irritated now. "Well, all I can say is, you are not a very animal-minded person. Not like William's parents."
"Huh!" I bridle at this. I am the one who picks up the dead rodents The Cats bring home, I am the one who picks up the dog's poo, walks her, bathes her, takes her to the vet . . . But he has heard this all before and is not going to let me get a word in.
"Anyway," he says, defiantly. "It doesn't matter if we hatch a cockerel. There's an easy way to deal with it. William says."
"I should have known," I sigh. "I suppose William will give a good home to any cockerel we don't want, is that it?"
"No," says Small Boy simply. "But his dad will ring its neck for us."
There's no real answer to that, is there?

Expletive Deleted

On a hormonal scale of one to ten, I am off the graph and shooting skywards towards "homicidal". This is not helped by the fact that the dog has eaten the three dead mice which The Cats had left as a thoughtful reminder of what they will do to me if I forget to buy any more Whiskas, and has then proceeded to treat various "offerings" from the local wildlife as a veritable smorgasbord for her breakfast. As if this weren't enough to turn my already delicate stomach, Chris Evans has had the temerity to go on holiday (or drive a fast car somewhere) leaving Richard "mad as a tea cosy" Madeley to take over the reins at Radio 2 in the morning. I cannot and will not listen to that apology-for-a-man's own inimitable brand of drivel, so we have to sit in silence or Make Conversation, which in reality means that the kids whinge and the School Run has become barely tolerable.
I wonder if Chris Evans realises the damage he causes by going away? How many mothers have all but strangled their off-spring on the way to school because there is no "Mon-day, Tues-day, WednesdayThursdayFriday" to sing along to; no "Candy Man" on a Chris-free Friday? I am seriously considering selling the piano to pay for a chauffeur until Chris Evans comes back. I realise I could put something else on, but no one is going to let me listen to the "Today" programme, and frankly listening to anything else is sheer insanity at that time of the morning. Daughter's choice of music is definitely to be avoided at all costs, as her preferences include the kind of music that have driven better women than me to commit Hari Kari at the steering wheel. I thus insist on seating Daughter in the back alongside Small Boy and the Mountain of Bags so that she cannot monopolise the radio controls and subject me to thumpy rappy stuff.
"But why don't you like rap?" asks Daughter. "It's better than the rubbish music you like."
"It's full of swearing," I say, "and it's aggressive and violent-" At that moment a van swings out in front of me, causing me to jam the brakes in an emergency stop. "What the *?@%£$?! does that white van man think he's doing, the *&%$£?>!!!"
"Aha! YOU are ALWAYS swearing," says Small Boy with a considerable amount of triumph in his voice. "And your worst ever swear word was that time you were driving round and round a roundabout in Peterborough and you said, "*&^%$£! Peterborough is the Arse End of the Universe!"
This is Small Boy's favourite anecodote about me which he wheels out with alarming regularity in the most unfortunate company, such as in front of friends who live in or near Peterborough.
"Yes well, ahem, never mind. What lessons have you got today?" I bluster.
"R.E.," says Daughter. "Mu-um, what is the difference between your soul and your spirit?"
At the moment, I am devoid of both, I think, gritting my teeth. "Oh, I think maybe one's to do with your actual essence that makes you you and the other is, um, sort of what makes you human." For crying out loud, WHY do they ask these kind of things when I'm trying to decide whether or not to overtake a bike on a sharp bend?
"That doesn't make sense," Daughter admonishes.
"Oh look! You've got a text from Grandma!" Small Boy shouts, waving my phone in the air. "Shall I read it?" The Aged Ps did make it on holiday to Greece, it transpires, but not before managing one last disaster en route: "Yr fthr st alrm 1 hr 2 L8. Thght w'd miss flght but it ws 3 hrs L8."
"What does that mean?" Small Boy asks in alarm.
I take a deep breath and give thanks that the Aged Ps are now in a faraway country and thus unable to call me from the two house phones and simultaneously regale me with their two differing versions of what actually happened. "It sounds like Grandpa set the alarm wrong so they thought they were going to miss their flight," I explain. "But luckily the flight was delayed so it was all OK in the end."
"Oh no. Poor Grandpa," says Daughter knowingly. "I bet Grandma swore at him all the way to the airport."
"So THAT'S where you get it from!" Small Boy exclaims with glee. I glower at him in the rear view mirror. He is looking thoughtful. "I wonder if Grandma thinks that Peterborough is the *&%$£>?! Arse End of the Universe, too?" he muses.

Let's Be Spontaneous!

Weekends used to be relaxed affairs; a period of two days when we slowed down, chilled out, mooched around and generally enjoyed ourselves. Not so now that the God of Sport rules our every spare moment. The alarm heartlessly streams Radio 4 into our bedroom at the same time at the weekend as it does during the week, the only difference being that Husband and I will have already drawn lots the night before as to who will respond, leap out of bed and start yelling: "Bags! Teeth! Hair! Shoes!" (We have made life difficult for ourselves, I admit. We still labour under the misguided belief that Friday nights signal the beginning of two days of fun, which invariably results in us drinking just that bit too much wine and watching just that bit too much rubbish telly before keeling into bed just that bit too late to be getting up at the crack of dawn the next day. We are just too wild for our own good.)

This Saturday it is my turn. I stumble and lurch blindly to the bathroom, promising myself yet again that next time I will not have that beer before that half bottle of wine on a Friday night, and manage to locate items which could be described as "clothes". However on closer examination, it would be stretching the imagination to beyond breaking point to describe their combined effect as anything resembling "an outfit".
No matter, I think to myself. I have only to drop and run this morning. I could, in fact, drive to school in my pyjamas, open the door, push Daughter out and drive away, tyres leaving satisfying burn marks on the tarmac.
Then I think of the scornful looks I would get from Daughter and reason that pyjamas probably aren't the solution I'm looking for. I resolve to pull on a coat to cover up the worst of my ensemble and decide to risk going make-up-less, having convinced myself that no one will be seeing me up close.

The children have already been up for at least an hour to ensure they get their required weekend dose of unsuitable television. I meditate briefly on the benefits of allowing them this on a weekday as it might mean Daughter would get out of bed of her own accord if she were allowed an hour of "Glee" and dodgy music videos before school, instead of being on the receiving end of my own personal brand of extraordinary rendition for teenagers, i.e. standing by her door shouting "GET UP!" and flicking her light switch on and off until sleep is no longer an option.

On arrival at school, I am horrified to see that two of the Dads are there, leaning against their cars and chatting. Why can't they do the drop and run thing like us Mums? I think, panicking, as I attempt to drive into school without being seen. I absolutely, positively cannot let them see me looking so rough. It would be Social Death, as Daughter would say if anything like that were to happen to her. However, at this moment Daughter, it turns out, is more concerned with Actual Death due to reckless driving.
"Mum! Look where you're going!" she cries, as I try driving with my head bent low behind the steering wheel, my hair flicked Bieber-style over my face. "You're going to crash into Evie and Millie and Molly and Livvy and Lottie if you're not careful. Oh, look! The Dads are waving at you, Mum. Aren't you going to say hello?"
I wince and wave back, knowing I will now have to get out of the car in my ill-chosen Saturday-morning garb so as not to be seen as rude and unfriendly. I think back to an article in the Guardian Weekend magazine about School Run Chic. My look this morning is less Claudia Schiffer, more The Lady in the Van. I regret not staying in my pyjamas. At least then I could have popped my head out of the window, gestured to my pyjamas and made some idiotic joke about going to a pyjama party without having to emerge from the car.
"Run!" I urge Daughter. "If you're lucky no one will realise we're related."
She shoots me a rueful smile. "Sometimes you are OK, Mum," she says gratefully, before breaking into a sprint, while I go over for a chat.

I arrive home to find that Small Boy has got himself a play date. As Daughter has arranged to go into town after her match, this means that Husband and I find ourselves in the unusual position of an entire day to ourselves with no children.
"We could go out!" I enthuse. "We could go to the cinema or something!"
"Oh, no," Husband says, shaking his head. "We haven't booked tickets."
"We don't need to - we can be spontaneous!" I cry. I realise I am probably looking rather wild-eyed and desperate at this point, but what the hell, I am FEELING wild-eyed and desperate. We have not been spontaneous since 1998. A fact which possibly explains Husband's reaction.
He shoots me a look of utter panic. "Spontaneous?" he echoes. "What's that?"
I sigh and retreat to the sofa with a cat and the newspaper. Husband looks visibly relieved that I have given up so easily and returns to his greenhouse.
At least I can catch up on a bit of sleep while I wait for the children to come home, I think, settling down with Jet curled into me, purring contentedly. (She and I do not often get such quality time together, it has to be said.)
I am just dozing off, my mind filled with soft-focused images of turning up to school looking like Claudia Schiffer, when something wet is shoved into my face.
"Urgh!" I jolt awake, sending the cat shooting from my lap, but not before she's given me a vicious farewell scratch. "What the--?"
It is the dog, her head on one side, a half-chewed tennis ball in her mouth. From the look of utter woe on her face she is plainly saying, "You're not going to sleep, are you? But we've got the whole day to ourselves! I thought we could be spontaneous . . ."

While the Cats' Owners are Away . . .

Whenever we go away, we have an insanely elaborate set-up for The Cats. It used to be easy: they would have access to the utility room and a friend would come and top up their food and water and cuddle them if they deigned to make an appearance. 
That was before the Summer of Woe.

During the Summer of Woe, Jet, my favourite (I know, I know, but if you knew her sister, she’d be your favourite too), allowed herself be seduced by a new neighbour while we were away. The neighbour fed Jet on Waitrose cat food and, for reasons best known only to the neighbour, called her Dora.
Once we had wrested our pet back from the arms of the devil, we vowed never again to let her roam free in our absence; thus whenever we go away, Jet is shut in with a litter tray - Husband being too mean to allow to pay for a stay at the Cat Hotel.
Sadly, Jet’s sister, Inky (otherwise known as Fatty or Psycho Cat) cannot be allowed to stay in the house unsupervised, owing to her propensity for scratching, puking, peeing, and . . . other disgusting behavioural problems. She is a feline nutter, twitchy in the extreme, and must be KEPT OUT while we are away.
Luckily for The Cats, and for me, I have a wonderful friend who understands the lunacy of this situation and is happy to help by feeding both animals, one in and one out. This arrangement has worked well for two years of family holidays.
Not so this summer.
Witness the scene on arrival back from our two weeks in Cornwall . . .

 “Meeeeeow. Meeeeeeeow!”

“That sounds like Psycho Cat in there,” I mutter, as I wrestle with the double-lock on the kitchen door. “What’s she doing in there? She’s supposed to be out.”
Small Boy peers in through the window as I lose my battle with the keys and my control on my language. “Mum, I thought Jet was always locked in to stop her escaping and Inky was locked out to stop her peeing on things.”
“Yes,” I grunt, wiggling the key and kicking the door.
“But that’s not Jet in there – that’s Inky,” Small Boy helpfully points out.
“I . . . KNOW!” I say, falling into the house as the lock and the door suddenly agree to cooperate, sending me sprawling. My right foot kicks an ominously full litter tray across the kitchen and my left steps in cat sick.
“Meeeeeeooooooow!” Psycho Cat complains, rocketing past me to freedom, only to reemerge seconds later with a plaintive request for food.
“So where’s Jet then?” Small Boy persists.
“Er, Mum . . .” Daughter is waving a small piece of white paper at me. “Have you seen this?”
It’s a note from our cleaner informing us that a window in the sitting room is “a bit broken”. On closer inspection, said window (a rotten lattice affair with soft lead surround, all too easy to vandalise) is revealed to be peeled out of its frame and hanging limply.
“Oh no! Burglars!” Small Boy shrieks, rushing upstairs to check his money box is still in tact.
“Possibly,” I say. “Although . . .” I gingerly feel around the edges of the window frame, withdraw my hand and hold up a wad of—
“Black fur?” says Husband.
At that moment, the escaped cat, Jet, appears on the patio outside the broken window. Her yellow eyes blink at me slowly and her long black tail flicks in a decidedly nonchalant manner.
“Jet!” I cry. “Did you do this?!”
She licks her whiskers with her small pink tongue and carelessly washes one paw, plainly enjoying my discomfort.
“Did you swap places with Psycho Cat?” I witter, aware that I am asking questions of a dumb animal, but too bewildered to do otherwise.
Another flick of that tail and Jet flashes me a look that is clearly asking me:
You didn’t seriously think you could keep me in against my will, did you? Who’s the dumb animal now?
No answer to that, really.