Bank Holiday weekend, the sun is out and the children are excited about their Daddy being at home. I am excited too. I have spent the past few days carefully drawing up a long list of jobs that my husband is uniquely qualified to do. Painting, clearing out the shed, replacing the numerous halogen bulbs that have blown, washing the car, mowing the lawn and making several trips to the Rubbish Dump, along with every other father in North Dorset. However, the children have a different list in mind which includes making camps, going to Cool Play, lunch in the pub followed by watching the ‘Shaun the Sheep’ DVD.
Saturday morning begins at 6am, an hour earlier than usual, with the pitter patter of feet along the corridor and into our bedroom. We desperately drag out the next hour by hauling a huge wooden box of cars onto our bed, much to the delight of our three-year-old son who ‘bruuums’ small lorries, tanks and buses across the duvet, over our heads and down our arms. The small cold wheels driving across our skin did not have quite the same effect as a massage with warm stones but at least we are still in the comfort of our bed. After the usual discussion over who is going to get out of bed first, the morning routine launches into action.
My husband shouts from the shower, “The water is cold.” Without taking too much notice, I place The List beside his cereal bowl, and decide to cook his favourite English breakfast, to get him in the right mood. Bacon, eggs, sausages and tomato in the grill pan ready for the piping hot Aga. However, not piping hot at all. Stone cold and well and truly off. Trying to remain calm, I say, “Darling, when did you last check the oil?” My husband appears in clothes that definitely don’t shout “gardening” and says, “Not for ages. Why?” He then spends the next few minutes sticking a bamboo cane down the top of the oil tank and calmly declares it empty. It then hits me. Bank Holiday weekend, no heating, no water and no oven. I become hysterical and fly into an almighty panic, while the children dance around the garden in their pyjamas jubilant about the prospect of eating meals out. I walk back into the kitchen subdued at the thought of my carefully planned Piquant chicken and Fondant potatoes replaced with Cheddar cheese sandwiches and Hula Hoops. My list is scattered across the kitchen floor in tiny pieces and as the dog looks up at me, head turned to one side, with a scrap of paper saying “Dump” stuck in its little beard, I realise that this Bank Holiday weekend was not going to go according to plan.
