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Shorts
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| Every two months | |
| By Nina | ||||||||||||
| 21 June 2006 | ||||||||||||
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Thanks again for your kind comments on my first posting. They've made me attempt a second one. Again, any feedback will be most appreciated. Every couple of months, my parents-in-law leave their idyllic Cambridgeshire village and head for the capital for a weekend taste of vibrant city life, but mostly to spend some time with their youngest son’s lovely family. Days before their visit, I always make sure that I get myself fully charged physically and emotionally. My husband cowardly deserts me and the kids locking himself into the study for the rest of the weekend. The aromas of the freshly grinded coffee and toasting bread in the morning, the appetising smell of roasting meals at dinner time and the BBC’s evening news are the only things that tempt him out of his office. ‘I’m sorry, honey, I have to finish this report by Monday morning so I’ll probably be busy working all weekend. I am sure my parents wouldn’t mind, they will want to spend more time with you and the kids anyway.’ Dean always pathetically excuses himself. And I, as a loyal loving wife, I understandably agree every single time. Here comes Friday afternoon, I squeeze the two kids and one dog in the back of my Frontera and there we are on our way to King’s Cross station to wait for the grandparents’ arrival. ‘Mum, Marcus pushed me’ the youngest one moans. ‘No, I didn’t, you liar’ the presumably guilty part tries to reject the claim. ‘Yes, you did.’ ‘No, I didn’t.’ the two sentence verbal exchange repeats itself for another one or two minutes. ‘Kids, please, be quiet, I’m concentrating on driving.’ The traffic on London streets on a Friday afternoon is absolutely horrendous. ‘Marcus, leave Nick alone.’ ‘Ain’t done anything’ And the ‘Yes, you did.’ ‘No, I didn’t.’ starts all over again. ‘That’s enough. Behave now. Marcus, speak properly.’ I wonder where he picks up the slang from. It is either the school playground or television and I decide instantly that we need to take drastic measures to redress the issue. ‘Nick, keep the dog still.’ I demand as Pimpy’s tongue tries desperately to reach for my face. ‘Hurry up, mum. We’re going to be late.’ the kids shout their concern at unison, at last. ‘I wish I could.’ I mumble as I try to squeeze the car between a fat white delivery van and a skinny shinny bike at the heavily jammed traffic light. Another twenty minutes and we’re almost there. To find a parking space around the station, especially at that time of the day, proves to be almost impossible. However, fifteen minutes on and we, somehow, manage to arrive on the right platform just as the train pulls its long heavy body in. In minutes, hurdles of people, luggage and noise start flooding the ‘until then pretty lonely’ platform. ‘Grandpa, grandpa…’ Marcus jerks his hand free and runs into his granddad’s ‘fully luggage engaged’ arms. We greet, we kiss, and we cuddle. Pimpy shares our enthusiasm, jumping joyfully around us, demanding attention. Ten minutes later, there we are, luggage, people and dog, squashed back in the Frontera. On the way home, we follow the usual ritual and stop at McDonalds. And here is where it all starts. ‘Oh dear, are you sure that this is a good idea? I mean, you know, fast food is not a very healthy choice, especially for the children, is it?’ I know that but how can I explain that a promise of a McDonalds meal is the only way of convincing the kids to join me on my trip to the station. ‘Well, it doesn’t really happen that often.’ I excuse myself the best way I could. In between mouthfuls of fat meat and oily fries doubtful looks get thrown at me, but I put on a brave face and tuck into a ‘health concern’ burger myself. Back home, my husband drags himself away from his ‘can’t wait’ paperwork for half an hour, just enough to say hello to his parents and chat about the weather, his job, kids and the Cambridgeshire village’s church hall, which is currently under renovation. This gives me enough time to get dinner started. However, I am sure it is going to be late. It always happens when the in-laws are around. Once his share is done, Dean excuses his way back to the study leaving the rest of the entertaining task to me and the kids. I know we will not see him again for another good couple of hours. Just before nine o’clock we are all nicely sited around the dinner table and everyone tucks into my lamb stew. ‘Lovely meal.’ my food gets complimented and I find myself gratefully smiling a thank you. However, the self-satisfaction feeling doesn’t last long. ‘It could do with a little more seasoning I would say. And the meat, I think, is slightly overcooked. Apart from that, it is, indeed, very tasty. I am not quite sure if we should really eat this late though, it may give us indigestion. Careful, Marcus, you spilled food on your t-shirt. Don’t feed the dog while you’re eating, Nick dear, now you have to go and wash your hands again. Marcus darling, don’t eat with your elbows on the table, it is rude. Shouldn’t you be in bed already, children?’ The kids give me exasperated looks. I raise my eyebrows resignedly helpless. ‘You shouldn’t let them stay up too late, dear, it affects their school performance.’ I get my share of criticism once again. My husband eats silently, occasionally giving us an amused look. He could, at least, try to divert the discussion to something more enjoyable for all of us, the kids and I mutually agree by eye contact. Gone half past ten and I am finally able to indulge myself in a hot aromatic bath. The kids are long tucked in bed and my in-laws are watching their favourite Friday night show in the guests’ bedroom. Dean comes in and gently starts rubbing my back in a generously rewarding way. ‘Thanks, honey. You’re wonderful. My parents absolutely adore you.’ Under his mellow touch I let my body slowly relax and, closing my eyes, I find myself smiling trying to forget that the weekend has just begun. Saturday brings in a reasonably quiet morning start, where we all sit around the kitchen table munching toast and drinking tea and coffee. However, once breakfast is finished, we prepare ourselves for the inspection: house, garden, dog, kids, me, even Dean can’t escape this time, we are all scrutinised, criticised and prepared for improvements. ‘Oh dear,’ it starts every single time, ‘look at these messy windows. I can’t really understand how you, people, could live like this. The carpet has dirty marls all over. Cupboards are not properly organised. The garden is in a mess. Look at that pile of ironing that needs sorting out. Kids’ rooms are cluttered. We could do with a bit of clearing out. Perhaps we can pack all unnecessary things for the charity. Darling, that pink skirt is not fashionable anymore. Dean definitely needs more socks and shirts. The dog needs a hair cut….’ and so it drags on and on and on. ‘Well. I don’t really have enough time on my hands.’ I defend my full-time working mother-of-two status. ‘I know, dear, I know. That’s why we’re here, to help.’ I get comforted with a gentle pat on my left cheek. And there we start scrubbing and de-cluttering and moving things around. Even Dean gets dragged away from his paperwork and persuaded to cut the grass and take the unneeded stuff to the charity shop around the corner. When all that’s finished we have a quick lunch and we all are ready to go shopping. All apart from Dean, of course, who, somehow, manages his escape back to the study. ‘You don’t really need me there, do you? I mean, you know I’m not good at shopping. And I have all this huge pile of paperwork still to sort out.’ ‘No, darling, you go back to your work. We’ll manage without you.’ he gets the much needed consent. Once again, we are back in the Frontera, which takes us to the local shopping centre. The ‘dos’ and ‘don’ts’ come with us in the car and they carry on relentlessly as the day progresses. ‘Marcus needs a new pair of shoes. You can’t possibly let him wear the ones he’s got on now anymore, they look so worn out, dear. And the top that Nick’s wearing looks old and tacky. Let’s have a look at these shirts for Dean. No, not that one, dear, the colour doesn’t really suit him. Maybe the blue one, goes well with the new tie he’s got. Oh, the shop assistant has a quite rude attitude, hasn’t she?. Perhaps we should make a complaint.’ I nod a ‘yes, maybe we should’ but I actually do not blame the girl, who has already made ten trips to the storeroom and back trying to find the right shade of blue shirt. By the time we and the thousand shopping bags get home, I am pretty much exhausted and Dean’s generous offer to take us all out for dinner comes as a more than welcome relief. Few hours later, tucked in bed, I fall asleep grateful that the day just gone brings me closer to the end of the weekend. Sunday morning wakes me up in a more positive spirit: there are only few more hours to go. Here comes Sunday lunch when we are all sited around the table enjoying the ‘nearly perfect’ roast chicken and steaming hot ‘a bit too crispy’ vegetables. An hour later and the in-laws are ready packed for their trip back to Cambridgeshire village. We say good byes, we kiss, and we cuddle again. A remorseful impulse makes Dean decide to drive them to the station himself and the kids and I are finally able to relax ....for another few weeks. Until next time. As I lay motionless on the sofa, a gratified smile grows on my face: the house is spotless, the clutter’s gone, our charity bit for the humanity is done, the kids are slightly better behaved and dressed, and I know that I do not have to worry about Dean’s ‘need to iron’ shirt tomorrow morning. And as I watch the kids quietly playing in front of me – they are tired too – I cannot stop thinking that, in ‘still many years to go’ time, when I will retire from my teaching job, I may perhaps turn into a clone of my ‘retired head mistress’ mother-in-law.
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