Swing low, sweet chariot...

There has been an element of cobweb removal around here today.  Not literally, although looking up at my bathroom ceiling this morning at a family of eight legged beasties fuzzy little home, I did thank the patron saint of home cleaning (St Flash of Multipurpose) that Lady H was 'doing my upstairs' this week.

No, these cobwebs were virtual ones, liberally festooning the inside of the husband's head and living in perfect harmony with some fuzzy ducks after a heavy day and night at Twickenham watching the rugby yesterday.

He'd gone with some of the children, and earlier in the week, I had warned him that they were bound to lead him astray on the Guinness front, and that he needed to be careful that he didn't end up completely inebriated.  'There's no chance of that ever happening', he bragged, 'I can drink any of them under the table'.  All this was said as he slipped on his pyjamas and got into bed, and I wondered if these words might come back to bite him.

Well of course they did.

Dropping him off at the railway station at 9.30 yesterday morning, I waved him off with good wife advice of 'don't drink too much' and then spent the rest of the day in the best of company with Miss R, Mrs S and the two woofers.  At 8.45pm, I got a message from daughter number one, who I hold partly responsible for what I collected from the station.  

'He's due in at the station at 10.23.  He's all yours'.  The photo accompanying the message showed the husband slumped in his train seat with his England Rugby beanie hat pulled down to his chin.  Knowing that he had to get off at Reading to change trains, I called him to remind him to get off.  There was no reply, and right up to 10.23, I didn't know whether I'd be getting a call from some Welsh British Rail guard asking if I'd come and pick him up from Cardiff.

I'd almost given up on him.  Various other ne'er-do'wells stumbled out the exit, and then finally, out came the husband.  I'd parked as closely as possible as it was raining, and his eyes clocked me quite quickly.  Unfortunately, his legs took a while to catch up with his eyes, so there was a small 360 degree manoeuvre in the car park before he finally managed to weave towards the car and drop himself into the passenger seat.

'Did you know Mark was Irish?' was his opening gambit.  Mark is my cousin's chap, and was part of the rugby gang yesterday.

'Of course. Why?'  (Where the hell was this going).

'Well he had an England shirt on and I said to him that I was really shocked that he wasn't wearing a Welsh one and he asked me why did I think he'd be wearing a Welsh shirt as he's Irish'. (This was said exactly like this, with no need for me to add any comma).

Apparently, the husband hit Embarrassing Dad levels just before lunch.

Good lad...