Move it...

'Are you ready then?' the husband asked me yesterday morning as I peeled my eyes open for another day.

'What for?' I asked with a hint of menace in my voice.  I should confess that I had already mentally checked off that it wasn't his birthday, Father's Day or the middle of a weekend away, so I was naturally intrigued as to what he was referring to at 6.00 in the morning.

'The kids are all coming back', he said with a smile as wide as the Joker's. 

If ever there was a way to put a damper on a sunny Tuesday morning, it was by reminding me that in approximately ten days, 75% of my children and 100% of their partners will be descending on my house.  And what would their reason be, I hear you ask?

The reason is that our home is nearest to Henley, and as the Regatta is looming on the horizon, they use our home as a doss house to get to and from Henley.  So basically, they stay here to keep the taxi fares down (assuming they can't nag me or the husband to ferry them in and out).

Over the last ten years or so, there have been various Regatta weekends which I would like to forget.  All of these involve tents and/or alcohol in some shape or form, but I am hoping that as they are now all adults (excuse me while I fall to the floor laughing and clutching my sides) the weekend will pass without incident.

But ten days to get the bedrooms ready is pushing it.  In fairness, daughter number two's bedroom is in pretty good nick as the dogs keep it tidy, so she and Jolly Sock Man should be fine in there.  

Son number one's bedroom has yet to recover from his return from university in May 2017 and a subsequent move to his own home earlier this year.  Why he didn't feel it necessary to take all his bloody rubbish with him is anyone's guess, but there you go, I'm left with discarded bed linen, posters of naked rugby players (I might hide these for my own consumption) and a skip's worth of rubbish, neatly piled up by his wicker waste bin.  There is also a mattress which has appeared from nowhere peeking out from underneath his bed, so I don't even have that precious bit of space to hide stuff now.  

When the husband saw my face change faster than a streaker in November, he assured me that he would do the first foray into son number one's bedroom to 'get rid of the worst'.  His definition of 'the worst' still remains to be seen.

Anyway, once the husband has done his bit, and I've done my bigger bit, the room will be fine for son number one and Little Miss Tiny.

And then there is daughter number one's bedroom.  This is still doubling up as the husband's motorbike room, and houses all his leathers, boots, helmet etc.  I reckon that the sensible thing would be to temporarily evict him from there and house him and his RoboCop fancy dress stuff in son number two's bedroom. He's not back here for another four weeks, which gives me a bit of a breather.

So once I have done a passable impersonation of Mr Shifter, daughter number one and Del Boy will also be adequately housed.

After that, I'm running away and joining the circus...