Waiting in the Wings

30th May 2011 Bank Holiday Monday

12.30 pm I turn the oven off. The chicken is perfectly cooked in its heavy Le Creuset pot, lemon stuffed, fragrant with melting onions and garlic, spiked with rosemary. The potatoes are rough edged, crisp brown roasted. Gravy made, carrots and spring greens chopped and waiting for boiling water. The meringues are crumby chewy, fruit salad chilled, cream whipped. But our visitors are stuck in traffic at Stonehenge. Nothing to do but wait.

3.15 Suddenly the house is full of children’s squeals, little shoes in the hall, a clear plastic football, raincoats and suitcases and soft cuddly toys. And so it begins - a switch flicks in my solar plexus and my life goes into standby mode, waiting in the wings, while my heart flows out to these dear people, tired or hurting or bouncing with delight. We become Auntie Trish and Uncle Bobble for a few precious days. Luckily no one seems to notice that the chicken is a bit dry.

The pussy cat slinks under our bed, his tail low, his eyes wide, and stays there till late into the night when unfamiliar voices are finally stilled.