Malcolm's visits from his home in Northamptonshire have crescendoed of late. He usually comes down for the cricket several times a year. This year, additionally, has involved a few hospital appointments, and an operation, pre-cricket season, and in London. More overnight stays.
So when we stagger back from a brief but glorious sojourn in Cornwall last night, feeling drunk from driving, and ate-lagged from the sheer volume of cream-teas, Dearest says, "Don't forget Malcolm is coming for the Old Boys Reunion tomorrow," I am underwhelmed.
I look at the explosion of crumpled half-worn clothes that stretch from suitcase to washing machine, the heaps of detritus and assorted crud you pull out of the car from the end of a seven hour journey, and sigh. Yes, I sigh. What else did you expect me to do? Leap up and spring into gear?
No, four days of being in a heavenly part of the Roseland peninsula, Veryan, have put me in Mediterranean mood. A strong case of the mañanas . I have another slug of Perrier to toast the commencement of a healthy-eating, no-alcohol regime, wade through the swathes of laundry and go to bed.
This morning I was just considering my first laundry load and idly contemplating whether Malcolm would notice that I had not changed his sheets from the last time, before deciding they had been admirably protected from dust by Dearest's cast-offs as he he tends to use that bed as a horizontal wardrobe, when there was a knock at the door. Nine o'clock on the button. My plumber arrived with his team to take out the downstairs bathroom.
It's on the calendar. Surely a big day in anybody's calendar? Same day as the OB Reunion. No missing it. But I did.
So, as I said earlier, I blame Malcolm.
Or maybe too much loveliness weakens the brain......?
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