Mad Scientess Jane Expat
The bloke's parents and godmother descended on us for lunch yesterday. We dusted off the barbecue and concocted a carnivorous feast for them, which they devoured. As part of my battle to keep our enormous rhubarb plants from taking over the world, and also because it is delicious, I made rhubarb crumble, which also disappeared. At the end of the food orgy, the bloke's father leaned back in his seat in the sunshine, a light wind ruffling his hair, and announced, "I feel gruntled." Which summed things up rather nicely.
I hadn't previously spent much time with Godmother, so it was a delight to discover that she was as wholesome an influence as one could desire for a godson. I have three points to illustrate my assertion.
On arrival, she allocated a decent interval to admire our gardening handiwork and our handsome progeny, who were lolling in the grass being angelically photogenic. (An image which they later spoiled by trying to grab her hands while she was cutting up a pork chop.) Then she set down her purse and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. "I'm going to smoke now," she announced. "You're all welcome to glower disapprovingly at me but it won't make a bit of difference."
Before tea, I came in to scrub my hands after moving a bunch of muscari from various places about the lawn to edge the concrete path down the garden. "Ah," she remarked approvingly. "You're a proper gardener. You don't use gloves."
"Actually, I stopped wearing gloves because the little yappy dog next door gets even worse if he sees people wearing gloves," I confessed.
"I don't like gardening gloves. They make it so I can't feel the soil properly. I compare it to having sex with a condom."
I blinked rapidly several times. So did the bloke's mum.
"Not that I've ever worn a condom," she added hastily.
"We could ask The Bloke when he comes in," I suggested, carefully preserving a solemn countenance.
"Yes," giggled the bloke's mum. "Watch him turn pink."
"And probably not answer the question," I finished.
Cue collapsing into helpless laughter, followed by the arrival of puzzled menfolk from outside.
After tea and cake, Godmother confessed to receiving her second speeding fine in a month. She grumbled about the speed camera that has now caught her twice before launching into a reminiscence.
"I still remember my first speeding fine," she said. "I was humming along - only 10 miles an hour over the limit - with the children in the back and I suddenly saw those blue flashing lights in my mirror. As I was pulling over, I thought about saying to the children, 'Cry! Pretend you have to go to the loo urgently! Do it now!'"
"Did you?" I asked eagerly.
"Noooo," she said wistfully. "But I wish I had."