This week I will mostly be eating fajitas and my own weight in chocolate biscuits if the cupboards are anything to go by, as I am in charge of these two, Boy and Dog of Shelley, who as we speak is no doubt collapsing in a hotel after a hot bumpy taxi ride from JFK. I have told Boy that I expect to be waited on hand and foot and I think he thinks I’m joking. Far more important to learn and meet the domestic needs of a knackered forty-something than to pass one’s GCSEs. He also seems to think he will be beating me at Scrabble, but I have already established that he doesn’t know all his two letter words (I offer you ‘gu’, a rudimentary violin. Oh yes.)
I will also be dealing with this lot;
…they do a very nice line in vertical take-offs whenever you stray near their fence. Dog is intrigued;
Dog is not actually levitating there – Boy is doing the hoisting.
Have a lovely time old girl, I’ll try not to burn the house down in your absence, or have social services and the RSPCA take the Boy and Dog away (and not necessarily in that order). Remember to look the other way first when you cross the road… I have had far too many already of those Marks and Sparks biscuits you left on the table and I feel sick.