Empty fridge

Today was Mark’s birthday, and I am sorry to say that it was something of an anticlimax.

I had remembered to send a card, and so had the children, and my parents, but of course we worked until morning last night, and were eventually roused out of oblivion at about half past ten, by the cheery voice of Ritalin Boy bellowing “HELLO GANNY I HERE!”

Ritalin Boy and Number One Son-In-Law had been up to Aberdeen to collect their ancient and disreputable camper van, in which Mark had lived whilst he was working up there. They had trundled back down the motorway and slept in Carlisle and were ready for coffee and breakfast.

Feeding Number One Son-In-Law is not an undertaking to be taken lightly. If I ate half as much as he does I would need to reinforce the suspension in the taxi very soon, but there is not a single ounce of lard on the chap anywhere. Of course he does a great deal of exercise, and the nurturing of Ritalin Boy is an exhausting business, but all the same I always have suspicions about tapeworms when I see him shovelling in second and third helpings of everything, followed by pudding, followed by children’s leftovers, followed by a bit of a snack and some biscuits, followed by just nipping over the road to Greggs for a pie, followed by wondering if it might be teatime yet.

Ritalin Boy had Rice Krispies for breakfast, which his father finished off, and then Mark and Number One Son-In-Law had a loaf of bread and some sausages and some cake and some biscuits, and then they set about emptying all of Mark’s things out of the camper van.

Ritalin Boy bounced on the trampoline and I tried to persuade him to remember where he had hidden the jewellery box from the top of my dressing table on his last visit, which I still haven’t managed to recover, but we drew a blank when we realised that I had already found everything that he had balanced on the top of the clock and he couldn’t remember where he had put it after that.

The camper van was bursting at the seams with Mark’s things, all of which needed putting away.

There were bags of flour and screwdrivers and socks and herbs and suet and bits of bicycle and books, all of which had to be accommodated in our already overflowing house. My spice cupboard instantly contained double its contents and we are going to have to manufacture a temporary spice rack to house everything until my father manufactures the permanent spice rack he has very kindly promised us.

There were some very nice T shirts which I resolved to wear on Mark’s behalf on days when I get up first, and an awful lot of rusty bits of things that he obviously intends to turn into something else, and which had better make their way up to the farm before we have a row about them. There were a couple of jerseys which he has quite clearly never worn, as they don’t have any oil on them anywhere, and a baseball cap of which exactly the reverse appears to be the case, and which needs storing in a plastic bag in the shed and handled only by somebody wearing gloves.

There was a bicycle which appeared to me more or less complete, and some towels and a collection of truly dreadful DVDs which I would have never have allowed him to buy, and which we certainly won’t be watching together: and the two of them swept and scrubbed and polished and tidied and mended things until it was tidy and fresh, and I put most things away and some things in the dustbin and some other things in a pile to argue about later.

Then Lucy washed up and  I made enough birthday dinner to last for three or four days, which Number One Son-In-Law polished off and wiped his plate with some bread, before putting Ritalin Boy’s leftovers in a box for later, and he and Ritalin Boy jumped in their newly cleaned camper van and chugged off to find Number One Daughter and have some adventures together, and we went to bed to try and catch up on some sleep before work.

Poor Mark, it wasn’t much of a birthday, and worse, it made us both want to be on holiday.

Ah well.