Commando Visiting
So, in a weak moment on the return flight from the UK recently, I happened to mention that we might be able to go back later in the school holidays (seeing as our social schedule is somewhat, well, empty) and since then, at every opportunity, I have been the subject of subliminal messaging by my offspring: ‘I’m going to have a shower, Mum, and can we go back to the UK soon?’, ‘can I change channel? Oh and when are we going to England?’ or my personal favourite ‘I’ll take the dog out for a pee, Mum, can we go to England tomorrow?’
Succumbing to the pressure, then, and bearing in mind that Hubby only has another couple of weeks of his course left to go, we decided to do a bit of stealth visiting and sneakily booked ourselves onto a ferry. Long suffering J arranged for poor Bertie to go back into kennels (his whiskers are only just growing back from the last time he was muzzled, bless him) and we stuffed everything into the back of the jeep. Hurling ourselves into the afternoon Dublin traffic, we proceeded to get hideously lost, found ourselves in Ballymun (#1 was close to having a panic attack when a lady with a baby strapped to her chest shook her paper cup at him at the traffic lights) and did several detours before getting back on track.
Arriving with five minutes to go before the cut off time, we found ourselves in the queue for the ferry uncomfortably jammed at the back amongst an entire convoy of travellers. Now, I’ve got nothing against travellers, but blimey, they’re scary in numbers. When we got on, we decided to embrace our inner snob and booked ourselves into Club (complementary snacks and drinks, including wine – damn that 5 hour drive the other side) where we watched from the balcony as the resident clown did a show for the little kids while the teenage travellers pelted him with fruit gums from the audience. #2 went to have a look and got dragged up on stage where the clown stunned the audience by producing an egg from his sock (he should have looked in #1′s, plenty of cheese in there – he could have made an omelette).
Out onto British soil once more then (but uncomfortably north of the Watford Gap) and with #1 map reading, we argued, sulked (the boys), sang and talked (me) our way through Wales, past Birmingham and eventually through Buckinghamshire, Bedfordshire and finally to me Mam’s. The boys did some commando crawling through the shrubbery in Grandma’s front garden and hid round the side of the house while I gave Hubby the fright of his life by appearing at the door, the conversation going something like this:
Me: ‘Surprise!’
Hubby: ‘Aaarrrrggghhhh!!!’
Me: ‘Oh. Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
Hubby (clutching chest): ‘Yes, but…what the bloody hell are you doing here?’
Cue children leaping out of undergrowth (‘raaaaarrrrrrgggghhh!’) at their already gobsmacked Daddy and a happy family reunion ensued.
Later, Hubby was supposed to pick up me Mam from a work party, so I went, leapt out of the car and we reran the whole ‘surprise’…’aaaarrrggghhh!’ scenario for her very startled friends (a couple of my Mum’s mates read the blog, it turns out (hello Heth! Hello Suze!). Next we’re off to frighten the Disreputable Dad to death. Ooh might get my inheritance early. Joke.
