Rubbishy title but accurate. I had rather a nice weekend, all told. Pottered about on Saturday shopping, cooking and generally loafing about. I made fajitas for dinner at the request of the two offspring. Husband and I had the full Monty: chicken fried with spices, peppers and onions, served with guacamole, salsa and creme fraiche held gingerly together in a tortilla wrap - I even make the guacamole and salsa myself (remind me of why I need to lose weight again?)
First Born will deign to have a smidgeon of salsa and some of the chicken, peppers and onion mix on his tortilla. Second Born however is serious about not allowing vegetable matter to pass his lips (shh, don't tell him what I put in the pasta sauce before I run it through the blender!) He exercises the concentration, skill and dedication of a neurosurgeon as he extracts ONLY pieces of chicken - uncontaminated by peppers or onion - and he won't even look at the salsa, guacamole or sour cream. Heathen. I doubt sometimes that I can be related to him, but then I remember watching him pounce upon the display of half price Milka chocolate in Sainsbury's with what I swear was a cackle, and I have to accept he is indeed mine.
The boys were off school for the local holiday today, Monday, so we had planned to make the most of the long weekend. Sunday morning we fed the children, packed up and dropped them off with their grandparents. Husband and I were meeting his colleague and her husband for a sort of business brainstorming weekend, and that is best done where there is space and time to think with no children to worry about. And also good food and wine and a wide selection of malt whiskies within easy reach. Obviously.
There is a lovely little country church right next door to the hotel and as we arrived it seemed to be quite busy. Lots of efficient looking ladies in hats and sensible coats. I assume there was a sale of work or harvest festival or something going on, as one of the said ladies standing at the entrance to the car park was holding a leek and a bundle of six pancakes (yes I counted) wrapped in clingfilm. She had either just bought them or she was oddly diligent about taking her groceries to morning worship.
The session went well, all brains were properly stormed and we felt like we had earned our dinner. Husband and I also enjoyed the luxury of a lovely quiet room (with a dressing room! And a sink EACH in the bathroom!) and no children arguing about Dr Who at 7am. After a leisurely breakfast (I love breakfast cooked and cleared away by someone else) we headed home, picking up the offspring on the way. On the way to get them, my mobile phone rang in the car. Husband fished it out of my bag (no mean feat in itself) and answered it. It was my Dad. Who responded to Husband's hearty "Hello!" with "I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number". Husband pointed out that it was he who had phoned me so this was unlikely. My Dad hasn't really got the hang of mobiles yet. Whenever he uses one he always holds it gingerly, as if he suspects it might explode in his hand or start asking him what the capital of Venezuala is. I could just imagine him, standing in the middle of Asda, wondering why his phone had started phoning random people without telling him. Cunning stuff, technology.
Anyway, we are back home now. Husband and First Born are playing Wii tennis and hitting each other between points. As far as I can tell, they appear to have decided to make tennis more interesting by playing doubles and allowing the computer to provide the partners. I am assuming this is what they have done as there are shouts from both of them of "Get it for goodness sake woman!" and "You could have got that if you tried!" Since the only females in the house are me and the cat, and neither of us are any good at Wii tennis, I'm assuming the computer generated partners are female. The Wii, for its part, seems to be ignoring them. Sensible machine. I think I'll do the same. Off now for some food, followed by a cup of tea and bed at the heady hour of about 9.30. I am remarkably easily pleased these days.