Daughter number two and son number two are going on holiday today. Not only that, but where they are going demands a passport which generally means that the weather will be warmer than here. I'm not bitter, but maybe I should have told them a bit sooner where I had hidden the beach towels and the suitcases. I never did reveal the hiding place of the European plugs or the Imodium, but hey ho, I'm sure that they'll manage.
I have to wait another two months before I get a chance to feel some European sunshine on my pallid English skin, so as long as they don't come home with any strap marks I'll be happy. Mind you, daughter number two has the skin of an Eskimo, and tends to go from pearly white to magnolia after a spell in the sunshine. Son number two on the other hand, has the propensity to go red (sun cream is for cissies apparently) so the two of them together will resemble one of those red and white stripy poles you see outside the barbers when they return.
I don't know about you ladies, but three days in the sunshine would be a suitable reward for sitting through all the rugby over the last few weeks. I'm not saying that I don't enjoy watching fit young men in very short shorts rolling around in the mud, but I do wish they were a little prettier. Obviously, looking like a member of the human race is not a pre-requisite when being called up for your national team. Nor are teeth, working ears, straight noses or sensible facial hair.
The worst thing with the rugby though, is that it seems to make the husband deaf. There have been many one sided conversations over the last few weeks, most of which have ended with him giving me a bewildered look and asking, 'Did you say something?' Well yes I did, but don't worry, the moment has now passed, and I answered the question myself in a most satisfactory manner. Last night was the final match for England, and when I got home from several hours in the hairdresser's, the husband was laid out on the sofa, beer in hand, ready to shout and holler at the television for the next hour or so. He didn't notice that I'd had my hair straightened or coloured.
I heard somewhere this week that this is normal behaviour if your man is one of some long standing. Hair Blindness it's called. Mind you, I haven't seen any hair on his head for some years, so maybe I suffer from this too?
Perhaps I should go and roll in the borders for an hour and grow a beard (easier than you might think at 53), don some silly shorts and stretch one of my pop socks around my forehead.
Do you think he'd notice me then?