Father's Day

A busy weekend in which we accomplish very little. Completely forget about the church fundraiser on Saturday; reminded only by the sour face of Mrs R as we pass her taking down the damp cardboard ‘car park’ sign at noon on Sunday. Fortunately, it’s Father’s Day, so H’s parents afford some protection from the full wrath of the village matriarch as we totter past on our way to the pub for lunch – parental entertainment is best facilitated by an early bottle of bubbly and it still leaves me a bit tiddly after the first glass. Two courses and several drinks heavier, we weave our way back in time to catch the Queens final on BBC1. I can take it or leave it but the in-laws are keen and at this point I just want to put my feet up and snooze for a couple of hours: clearly this is not going to happen but at least the tennis keeps them occupied. When (I wonder in clichéd fashion) did I start thinking of them as children? Not completely of course, but enough that they are creatures to be entertained: fed, watered, kept quiet and happy. I suspect it’s not them but me. Certainly they’re no trouble, really. I’m nevertheless quietly relieved when they peck goodbye and we can settle down to mooch comfortably through the evening.