Husband has the sniffles. Damn him. I knew this would happen. Bloody holiday curse strikes again. We haven’t even left the country and the first family member is already down. Meanwhile, I’ve stuffed up next year’s holiday too. I booked a cruise for the whole family (except Husband, as he’d rubbish it and ruin it for me) to celebrate Mum’s 70th (Mum and Dad being cruise fanatics). I kept apologising to Mum about having to celebrate a bit early, as the cruise ends five days before her birthday. Last week, I expressed my delight that we’d be toasting her 70th birthday at sea. She said, “Darling, it’s not my 70th next year.” What? “I’ll only be 69.” What? Seeing the look of horror and devastation spreading across my face, she added, “I thought it was a bit odd that you wanted to celebrate a whole year early.” I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I’m the one who got her own mother’s birthday wrong. “I meant five days Mum, five days, not 370 days. What are we supposed to do for your actual 70th? How do we top a cruise?” “Oh darling, I’ll be fine with a barbecue in the backyard.” Yeah, right, she says that now, but how’s she going to feel when all her 70-year-old mates ask what her family did to mark the occasion? Disaster. Well, as much as a cruise to Tahiti and Hawaii can be categorised as a disaster … I think I should stop moaning now. At least about the cruise. Save my spleen venting for inconveniently sick Husband. I told him to get more sleep. I told him fiddling with his iPad at 1am wasn’t conducive to sleep. I told him to eat more fruit. I told him to drink less beer. Did he listen? No.
PS: A big thank you to Ben and Ava for chook & housesitting while we’re away. They looked a bit scared when I gave them their list of instructions on chook care. Just the basics, like lock the cage at night or foxes will get in and the chooks will DIE; don’t leave the side gate open or the chooks will escape and DIE; lift broody Henny Penny out of the nesting box occasionally to eat and drink or she might DIE; if something bad happens, don’t think you can try and fool me by finding an identical replacement chook. I will notice. And you will DIE. Pretty straightforward. Can’t see what they’re worried about.
TONIGHT’S MENU: It’s the end-of-season soccer parents’ dinner (ie parents of the sprogs who play soccer together) at the local Indian restaurant. I’ve no idea why such an odd custom exists, but I’m quite looking forward to it. We’re having the banquet. I love banquets. Almost as much as I love buffets. Buffets are cool.