This weekend, Husband’s parents arrived for a surprise visit.
Well. I knew they were coming but Andrew didn’t. Generally, intrigue works MUCH better for us the other way around.
On any number of occasions the cat had at least a paw and three whiskers out of the bag. One time I barely stopped myself blurting out, ‘Which bed should we put your parents in?’ And I can’t tell you how often I came THIS CLOSE to standing in the middle of the living room shouting, ‘YOUR PARENTS ARE COMING! YOUR PARENTS ARE COMING!’
The Quack Team were also coming across from Nelson to celebrate Andrew’s 40th birthday. Well, I can keep one secret at any given time, but not two; in any case, I felt telling Andrew about The Quack Team’s visit might facilitate my coordinating of his ulterior schedule.
Turns out the man just flatly refuses to take direction. Friday morning Andrew resolved to go into Blenheim to purchase ‘connectors’. I hastily postponed The Outlaws’ arrival during a clandestine communiqué with Her Goatiness, whispering hoarsely into the telephone with the shower running. Then, after we returned – around the time The Outlaws were due – I practically had to lash Husband to the deck to stop him going fishing.
When his parents rolled down the drive, Andrew claimed he’d known something was up; said I’d been unusually twitchy. But I WAS A SPHINX. I might have believed him if he’d said he thought I was coming down with malaria.