Filthy Weekend.

For years I’ve been having run ins with Admiral Nelson, that erstwhile naval hero who lost his life on the 21st of October. The 21st is thus celebrated by the Royal Navy as Trafalgar Night, an evening dedicated to remembering their former leader with lashings of alcohol, a fine repast, jolly japes and no spouse. The 21st of October also happens to be my birthday and, since I married Hubby, have over the years become increasingly cheesed off with good old Horatio for stealing my thunder and my husband, because he ‘just has’ to go to Traf Night instead of wining and dining me, “Sorry, three line whip love”.
This year, the 21st being on a Sunday, I thought I’d got away with it. I thought I’d have his undivided attention as Mags, in a moment of decadent generosity has bought Hubby and I a night away at Villa Marina in Fowey as a thank you for having her and her children stay over the summer.
I have been very excited about my little getaway. I’ve looked up the hotel’s web site and browsed its pages and it really does look fabulous. We have a balcony room, filled with gorgeous bath treats, white fluffy bath robes and a table booked at their phenomenal restaurant. I have bought new lingerie and something satin for under the sheets. My hair has either been depilated or dyed, my nails filed, polished and buffed.
Childcare is arranged, my bag is packed. You’d think it was a win win situation. Well think again. Only last night Hubby threw a little off the cuff remark in my direction, a way of jocularly preparing me for the weekend ahead. Usually when we have time away together in a hotel, the jokes are of a sexual nature: a wink, wink, cor blimey love, double entendre, ridiculous nature where his eager hands have to be slapped away at regular intervals.
Last night however, as I dished up his Moroccan chicken tagine, he rather nervously said, whilst attempting a laugh, “Hey the only groaning going on this weekend will be if Johnny Wilkinson injures himself or we lose”.
“What’s that?” I asked, distracted by the turmeric infused chickpeas which had escaped my ladle and which were quite happily staining my work surfaces.
He laughed again, “Johnny Wilkinson? You know, plays rugby for England”.
“What about him?”, I was now attempting to curtail the couscous which was being liberally sprinkled on the floor.
“Alice love, haven’t you been following the World Cup?”
“Not religiously no”, I counted out six knives and six forks, “Would you lay the table for me please?” I asked, before carrying the steaming dish into the dining room.
“KIDS!” I yelled at the bottom of the stairs, “Grub’s up”. A herd of elephants stampeded down the stairs, the littlest one trailing in their wake, her floor length princess gown and high heeled, plastic glass slippers, impeding her descent.
“Oh yum” said one.
“Oh no”, said another.
“Oh yuck”, said another and finally, the youngest clambered onto her chair, surveyed the yellow dish, the chickpeas, the peppers, the herbs and spices then crossed her arms and pronounced,
“It yellow. Me not like yellow. Me not eat it”.
I let out a deep sigh, “That’s all there is. Like it or lump it”.
“Why can’t we have pasta?” asked the five year old.
“Because we had it last night”, I replied.
“And the night before that” added the 12 year old.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea you were scrutinising my menus. Please, should you have any recommendations I should be happy to hear them, especially if you would like to shop for the ingredients, pay for them, place them in a carrier bag, put them in the car, drive home, remove them from the car, remove them from the carrier bag and then squish them into any available space in the fridge, freezer or cupboard?”
Funnily enough this sarcastic eruption was met with silence, until my son, ever the peacemaker attempted conversation.
“So dad, are there any sports bars in Fowey?”
I saw my husband look at my son with what can only be described as terror in his eyes and he shook his head and mouthed, “Not now”.
“Why do we need a sports bar?”, I pursued.
My son looked conflicted, on the one hand he obviously wanted a ‘boysey’ chat with his dad, man to man, on the other hand he sensed he’d said something he shouldn’t have and whichever way he turned he was snookered.
He looked at his father pleadingly over his couscous.
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” I demanded.
“Darling, I tried to explain to you earlier, England are in the final of the World Cup”.
“Congratulations. So what?”
“The kick off’s at eight”. I dropped my fork.
“Are you trying to tell me that, when we have a night away together for the first time in over a year, in a fab hotel with a sexy room, with a Michelin dinner, that you would rather watch a game of rugby instead of, well instead of the alternative?”
“Please mum, you’re putting me off my tagine”.
“Don’t interrupt. Well, would you prefer to watch rugby than eat a glorious dinner then seduce your wife?”
From the look on his face it was obvious that’s exactly what he'd prefer.
“Can’t we get the seduction bit over with first then?” he asked.
My children looked stricken.
“Oh ever the romantic and what about dinner?”, I was livid.
“Well darling it is rather expensive. I thought we could have an early pub supper somewhere, a pasty and a pint maybe and then I’d run you a nice bath, open a bottle of wine and you could read whilst I watched the game. I take it there is a TV in our room?” I’m ashamed to admit it but the tagine was upended and Hubby is still picking chickpeas out of his ears. So, if anyone fancies a filthy weekend, well you know where to find me.