Something For The Weekend

It's been a strange and rather lonely weekend here, all things considered. Not the I-need-your-pity sort of lonely, more just a distinct lack of people around the place.

There's always someone missing at the weekend because a couple usually stay at my mother's house on Fridays and Saturdays. They draw lots for it. This weekend there was only one there because the others had a better offer of a sleepover at their cousins house. Other kids, the chance of messing about till three in the morning and Hannah Montana on Nickelodeon.
Sorry, Nana, no contest

.

Added to this, the Football Fanatic left for a day in Blackpool at 8.30 yesterday morning. The Father of This Lot turned up, but he would rather slit his own throat with a blunt knife than spend a Saturday afternoon here while there is sun shining and pubs open, so he didn't hang about for long. I wasn't bothered. I just relieved him of his bank card before he left and went to Tesco, where I bought something for tea, three new outfits and a pair of shoes.

Consequently, there was no-one here to tell of my new found fame and fortune. I had a mention in The Daily Telegraph, no less, as one of the recommended 'blogging mums'. Actually, I'm quite glad The Father of This Lot wasn't here, since he was descibed in a national broadsheet as a 'feckless husband'. Family Affairs and I have been wondering whether there might be a book deal in it, which would keep us in a manner to which we're unaccustomed, and if so, would we buy more expensive shoes? Personally, I have already started. The shoes at Tesco cost £8, which is far more than the £3.99 I usually pay at Primark. I'm quite giddy with it, actually.

Today, after the 10 o'clock mass, I was informed that I had to be back at church at 2pm, to provide refreshments for the Whit Sunday gathering which involved all the other churches in the area. I helped to put the tables out, fill the urns, sort out biscuits and cakes, and at five to three I told Fr. J. I was going home.

Him: What do you mean, you're going home?

Me: Father, you are perfectly well aware that the last match of the season, on which the Premiership title hangs, kicks off in five minutes. I am going home.

Him: (Hissing, no less. From a priest) You won't even watch it anyway. You'll only pace about upstairs.

Me: That's as maybe. D'you think they'll win?

Him: I hope so.

He was only jealous, that he couldn't go home and watch it.

And he was right. I didn't watch it. Couldn't. I just paced about upstairs. The Football Fanatic was in a bar in Old Trafford. I don't think she watched much of it either. She was in the toilet every time she phoned me. It's on again tonight. I'll watch it then.

In the meantime.........oh, go on. Humour me!