Wednesday, 31 August 2016

Donna...

After a humdrum sort of Tuesday (that day after the Bank Holiday weekend when you really wish that you'd booked the Tuesday off too) it was lovely to hear from my best friend Mrs S. 

'Come to the pub', she said. 
'Your husband's had a rotten day', she said.
'It's a lovely evening', she said
'He's on his way to collect you', she said.
...and then the final dagger to the heart....'You're driving him home'.

Well, I couldn't say no could I?  Not that I would have anyway, as any time spent with Mrs S is wonderful, but I was slightly concerned about the chicken and potatoes which I had prepared for a sneaky Tuesday roast.  Now I know how these kind of impromptu evenings can go, so I decided that I wouldn't throw the chicken in the oven, and assume we would be back in an hour.  Sensible decision as it happened.

Two hours later, we were still sitting outside the pub.  The husband was on this third pint (he'll regret that in the morning) and I was overflowing with lime and soda and posh crisps.  Son number one just happened to drive past the pub where we were, and seeing the husband's hi-vis t-shirt, slowed down just long enough to shout that he was going to rugby, and that he'd be home for dinner later.  Dinner?  This was looking more and more unlikely as time went on.

Fast forward another hour, and Mrs S's mobile rings.  It was her son, who had returned home to an empty house.  There were no lights on and no dinner.

'Where are you?' he demanded.

'In the pub', confessed Mrs S. 

'Why are you laughing?' asked the whippersnapper.

Well I think that I would challenge anyone not to laugh uncontrollably after three large glasses of Pinot on an empty stomach, but suitably admonished, Mrs S decided that she probably ought to go home.

It was just at this time, that my mobile went off.  It was son number one.

'Where are you?' he asked

'Still in the pub', I said.  'Dad wants a kebab on the way home, do you want one too?'

Tuesday night was rapidly turning into a Friday night, so with orders taken, we headed off to the kebab van. Walking back into the house, I almost expected son number one to look at his watch, and ask 'and what time do you call this?' But he didn't.  He simply rolled his eyes and carried on tapping away on his laptop.

But this is one of the funnier things about growing older.  All of a sudden, it's us who are out too late, us who haven't cooked dinner and best of all, us who aren't being responsible adults.

And boy, does that feel great....
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