Monday, 20 June 2016

Dance with my father...

It was Father's Day yesterday.  A day when children spoil their dad, reminding him with gifts, words and cards as to how much they love and appreciate him.  At least, that's how it's meant to go...

Saturday night had been a particularly heavy one for the husband.  We were celebrating the divine Mrs H's 50th birthday at a dinner prepared for her by another gorgeous friend.  The husband, who has a fondness for inappropriate dancing at times, spent the evening gyrating on the patio with various glamour pusses, with numerous shots of grappa and limoncello lubricating his knees.  You should have seen him go..and go..and go.  There were moves undertaken which have yet to be named, and some which are probably barely legal.  After some persuasion, I eventually managed to lever him out well after Cinderella o'clock, and we staggered back home, managing to walk the whole ten metres without stopping.

This was all well and good, until yesterday morning.  I hadn't been drinking (the usual martyr approach suits me just fine) so I was up early enough to get the first call from daughter number 2 (from a beach in Thailand) to wish the husband a wonderful day.  He slept all through that, so I had a lovely chat instead, successfully maintaining a smile above bared teeth as I compared her surroundings with mine at that moment (she was a in a bikini, I was in my dressing gown.  She had a cocktail, I had a cup of tea....)

Messages started coming through from the other kids, all wanting to speak to their dad - he slept through all of those too.  Briefly surfacing around 10.00, the husband resorted to a couple of painkillers and another hour in bed, working on the assumption that things wouldn't hurt so much if he was unconscious.   

Around 11.00, the other three kids all turned up together, their noise and laughter enough to make the husband clutch at his forehead in a vain attempt to stop the fluffy ducks pecking at the inside of his eyelids.  But sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by cards, gifts, three of his children, one wife and two dogs, he couldn't have been happier. I like to think his smile was down to that, and not because of the jar of sweets which he was holding in a vice like grip (this is what you have to resort to if you have children in the house - one lapse of attention, and they're gone). 

He then had to cook a barbecue for eleven, as various grandparents tipped up to celebrate the day with him (see how kind I am to him?) 

The last guest left the house around 6.45pm.  The husband was laid out on the sofa at 6.47pm, muttering under his breath that he will never drink again, ever...

I give him till Thursday...
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