We manage to get through the rest of the first day of the Aged Ps' visit with no unforeseen mishaps. Husband and I escape for the evening to have dinner with friends. When we return at 11 o'clock (Party Animals R Us) the house is cloaked in darkness, there is a pile of hot water bottles on the kitchen table and the rest of the kitchen looks as though a team of wannabe Masterchefs have had a competition to see who can use the most pots and pans. My phone, having been in a black spot all evening, suddenly pings me a text from Daughter: "Where r the ht warter botle lids? I'm freeeeeezin."
The next morning, a Sunday, I shoot out of bed at 8.30am because I have been given my marching orders for the day: a roast lunch is to be served on the dot of midday so that we can get Daughter to another match in the afternoon at a school 45 minutes' drive away. Normally we would eat in the evening on such a day, but when I suggested this to Mother I was told this "would not do" as the Aged Ps needed to leave early. The promise of an early departure has galvanised me into action (usually I am pushing them out of the door with a rictus grin on my face late at night at the end of such a weekend), so I am chopping and peeling and whisking and basting away before Husband has woken.
"Did you have a nice evening?" Mother asks.
"Yes, thanks," I say. "It was lovely--"
"Oh good," Mother cuts in. "Only we didn't. We had to watch The X Factor and then some rubbish your father likes called Merlin. I read the paper. Or rather that rag of a thing you call a paper-- Grandpa! You aren't eating butter are you?" she shouts at Dad. Dad is strictly "off butter" since having his cholesterol measured. Small Boy and he are in cahoots over this prohibition: Small Boy has taken on the role of "butter pusher" and has been rather good at remaining unobserved. Until now.
"That's not butter," says Small Boy, loyally. "S'just a bit of grease."
"IT'S BUTTER!" Mother shouts, lunging at the offending piece of toast.
I turn on the radio and start humming to myself while I lay into a pile of carrots with a level of psychotic passion normally the preserve of violent offenders.
Husband seems to be having a very long lie-in, I think, as everyone, even Daughter, finally finishes their breakfast and get dressed.
Husband appears bleary-eyed an hour or so later. "I had a dreadful night," he says. "Psycho Cat jumped on me at 2am and then Jet came in and purred in my face at 3am."
I yell to Small Boy and Daughter: "Why didn't you put the cats out? You know they go out at night."
Mother steps in with a saccharine grandmotherly smile on her face. "Well your poor children were freezing last night (this really is such a cold house) and we couldn't find the hot water bottle lids, so we let them have a cat each instead."
"The lids were inside the bottle covers," I say. "You only had to look."
"Never mind, a cat does just as well," Mother says breezily.
I make a mental note to slip Psycho Cat into her bag before she leaves. The two of them should get along just fine, I think, as I return to vigorously chopping apples and muttering under my breath.
Only eight more hours to go . . .
The next morning, a Sunday, I shoot out of bed at 8.30am because I have been given my marching orders for the day: a roast lunch is to be served on the dot of midday so that we can get Daughter to another match in the afternoon at a school 45 minutes' drive away. Normally we would eat in the evening on such a day, but when I suggested this to Mother I was told this "would not do" as the Aged Ps needed to leave early. The promise of an early departure has galvanised me into action (usually I am pushing them out of the door with a rictus grin on my face late at night at the end of such a weekend), so I am chopping and peeling and whisking and basting away before Husband has woken.
"Did you have a nice evening?" Mother asks.
"Yes, thanks," I say. "It was lovely--"
"Oh good," Mother cuts in. "Only we didn't. We had to watch The X Factor and then some rubbish your father likes called Merlin. I read the paper. Or rather that rag of a thing you call a paper-- Grandpa! You aren't eating butter are you?" she shouts at Dad. Dad is strictly "off butter" since having his cholesterol measured. Small Boy and he are in cahoots over this prohibition: Small Boy has taken on the role of "butter pusher" and has been rather good at remaining unobserved. Until now.
"That's not butter," says Small Boy, loyally. "S'just a bit of grease."
"IT'S BUTTER!" Mother shouts, lunging at the offending piece of toast.
I turn on the radio and start humming to myself while I lay into a pile of carrots with a level of psychotic passion normally the preserve of violent offenders.
Husband seems to be having a very long lie-in, I think, as everyone, even Daughter, finally finishes their breakfast and get dressed.
Husband appears bleary-eyed an hour or so later. "I had a dreadful night," he says. "Psycho Cat jumped on me at 2am and then Jet came in and purred in my face at 3am."
I yell to Small Boy and Daughter: "Why didn't you put the cats out? You know they go out at night."
Mother steps in with a saccharine grandmotherly smile on her face. "Well your poor children were freezing last night (this really is such a cold house) and we couldn't find the hot water bottle lids, so we let them have a cat each instead."
"The lids were inside the bottle covers," I say. "You only had to look."
"Never mind, a cat does just as well," Mother says breezily.
I make a mental note to slip Psycho Cat into her bag before she leaves. The two of them should get along just fine, I think, as I return to vigorously chopping apples and muttering under my breath.
Only eight more hours to go . . .
