I was doing so well with Gareth's parents. I think they're legends so I've tried hard to win them over with my Novelty Accent™ and a framed photo of the firstborn for their Xmas present. But then this morning Gareth and I were lazing in bed…
(and just lazing, mind – no funny business. Holidays were made for lounging in your scratcher, drinking endless cups of tea, listening to the radio and declaring, "I give you the gift of fragrance" before dropping farts with a strong note of festive Brussels sprouts.)
… when the doorbell rang.
"You get it, it's your flat."
"You get it! I don't know where my pants are."
"I don't know where mine are!"
"But you'll be able to find yours quicker."
I stomped to door and picked up the intercom phone thingy. "Hello?"
My stomach dropped. It was the voice of Gareth's mother.
I flew into the usual unthinking panicky spinning-in-circles routine, pressed the door entry button and bellowed, "GARETH! It's your MOTHER!", with no regard for the intercom handset thingy nestled under my jaw in the perfect position to beam my voice outside into the crispy air where the potential mother-in-law stood.
I couldn't hear approaching footsteps. Had I scared her off? I peered through the frosted glass of the front door but couldn't see a thing. I pressed the door entry button again just in case.
"GARETH! It's your MOTHER I tell you!" I fumbled with the lock, hauling the door open, "GARETH! GET YOUR PANTS ON!"
And there she was on the doorstep. She's barely five feet tall so she'd slipped in under my eye level. I couldn't figure out what kind of smile she was wearing. Bemused? Bewildered? Disturbed?
"I'm not staying, can you just pass this on to Gareth, it's a case for his new camera. How about I come back tomorrow and catch up with you both, say, 4.30?"
"Sounds great!" I bleated as she scurried off. "4.30 it is!"