Superman...

As you may recall, son number two is currently back at the homestead.  He was here while the husband and I were at Carfest so that the dogs wouldn't go unfed or unwalked.  Looking at the size of them when we returned on Monday, I think it's safe to say that son number two achieved 50% of my expectations.  The lounge carpet was littered with the remains of various animals (pigs' ears, cows' bones and some strange looking hooves) and knowing what the eventual outcome of these treats usually is, what was left was hurriedly put into a carrier bag and disposed of while the husband took the two of them for their pre-bedtime perambulation.

Son number two is a funny old bod.  His room in his university home in Leeds is kept tidy and free of all rubbish.  How do I know this?  Well he likes to video call me on regular occasions, so I see what the room looks like behind him.  It's always tidy with very little stuff lying around (as he tells me on many occasions, 'I like things to be in the right place') and you can almost smell the lavender polish.

Having seen what state his bedroom is in after five days at home, I have come to the conclusion that he has a fake backdrop which he uses whenever he calls me.  I can just imagine him rolling it down, and tucking the ends under odd shoes, dirty socks, three day old cereal bowls and any friend who might have had the misfortune to visit over the last seventy two hours.  

It would appear that the 'right place' is anywhere from my kitchen table (large box, new formal jacket, empty plastic bag) to the bottom of the stairs (another black jacket, and the wool trousers which used to match the formal jacket before he put them in the washing machine with his smalls - by the way, I am expected to perform a miracle on these and create a three inch increase from nowhere in the inside leg).  We then move onto the hall where two new bath towels languish on a sofa and the dreaded laundry airer (which nearly garotted the Mother coming back from Asda last week) still leans nonchalantly against the hall table.  

And as for the bedroom?

Goodness knows.  I'm not brave enough to go in there, and have resorted to shouting at him from the landing.  The most common request is for him to release the four towels from the bathroom back into the wild.  For some reason, this lanky, short haired son of mine requires four large bath sheets every time he has a shower.  One for his head, one tied around his waist, one to stand on, and finally, one for a bloody cape around his shoulders (probably thinks he's Superman).

Which leaves this slightly round, middle aged Bird with curly hair with just a face flannel after her bath.

I may get my own back on him and make my face-flannelled dash across the landing just as he comes out of his bedroom.  This might have the double effect of making sure that the towels are put back, and also of putting him off his food for a few days.

My purse would be thrilled...