Show me the puppies..

There is more a ying and a yang thing going on my life than anyone else’s of that I am convinced. For instance, when giving blood a few weeks ago I was stopped afterwards for using my mobile phone whilst at a red light. I begged and pleaded with the police officer and showed him my plaster where the needle had been to demonstrate that I wasn’t a careless, thoughtless driver but, if the blood donating television advert would have us believe, a hero. “Please don’t give me any more points. Please. I am trying to do a good thing. I have just given blood but they were running behind time and I was ringing my daughter’s school to let them know that although I was late, I was on my way”. The police officer was very grave. He gave me a good scolding and pointed out the erroneous errors of my ways. He told me of terrible pile ups and made me feel like a mass murderer, but thankfully he did take into account the fact that I had provided life saving blood that ironically would be necessary in one of the aforementioned pile ups and so, my good deed almost balanced out the bad and he eventually let me drive away.
This ying and yang has been prevalent for quite some time now and I am beginning to wonder whether it would be just a safer bet to stay at home. Last year Hubby and I went to Paris for what was to be a romantic weekend: our return flight was cancelled twice, we had to pay for an overnight hotel, the Eurostar, a hire car and then arrived home to find my eldest daughter’s bedroom virtually reduced to a cinder as she had left her hair straighteners on under her duvet and the following morning the youngest child came down with a nasty bout of gastroenteritis.
In October a friend, in return for having stayed here for a few weeks, very kindly paid for Hubby and I to stay in a fabulous hotel in Fowey overnight. As many will remember I was sick and couldn’t eat my Michelin starred dinner. We returned home, our tail between our legs only to find the third child also sick.
In November I attended a sumptuous party near Bath, leaving my youngest child vomiting on the sofa, worryingly left in the sole care of her father.
You’d think therefore that when a thick envelope dropped onto my mat six weeks ago inviting Hubby and myself to a ‘vintage Hollywood’ party that I would have immediately replied, ‘Commander and Mrs Band thank Mr and Mrs Macintosh for their kind invitation to their party but due to the fact that every time they try and enjoy themselves they find themselves severely punished by the gods, and therefore have no alternative but to decline this invitation for fear of Divine reprisals.’ Whether we never learn or are eternal optimists, I couldn’t possibly say but we threw caution to the wind and so, last Saturday, dressed to kill, we attended the best party that South East Cornwall has held for many years. Of course I checked and double checked all the children before we left and when I mean ‘all the children’ then think Waltonesque. In addition to my own four, I also had my two teenage God-children staying for a fortnight, on top of that my twelve year old had her friend sleeping over and two other young children stayed whose parents were attending the same party. They were all hale and hearty and having a merry time.
Hubby looked a million dollars in his mess and dress, every inch a Hollywood matinee idol. I on the other hand, having learnt on the steep learning curve of life called humiliation that basques and glamour and I do not go hand in hand, decided to camp it up a little. With a wig, some gloves, a sticky-up collar, a cigarette holder, a long black dress and some striking make up and even more striking attitude, I assumed the role of Cruella de Vil. A word of advice. For those inclined to play the dominatrix yet who perhaps find the sweaty rubber garb somewhat disagreeable – dress up as Cruella de Vil. Men genuinely quivered in my wake. As one gentleman told me later, “You have been the main topic of conversation tonight. We are terrified. You have sliced through us like butter and I am not ashamed to admit I was the butter”. Result.
We danced until late, until I dragged a rather imbibed Hubby into a waiting taxi. Celestial payback time awaited my return. My son and God-son were up and in a flap, each nursing my youngest girls, who were sobbing. Hubby, to my utter dismay could only fall into bed and with shark eyes i.e glazed, black and open , pretending to be awake, he uttered, “Can you manage love?” before falling, fast asleep. Useless. I eventually settled the 6 year old but the youngest kept wailing. Finally, overcome by fatigue and my own desire for sleep and ibuprofen I carried the Red-Head into our bed where she promptly threw up. Hubby didn’t even flinch. She was sick every half hour throughout the night. On Monday the next sister was sick, on Wednesday the next, on Thursday the God-son and on Friday the youngest came down with chicken-pox. I am up to here with stripping beds and domestic incarceration. The sun has shone every day and I have seen nothing of it save rinsing out buckets in the garden and hanging bedding. I implore all friends. If you genuinely like us and hold us dear then please, do not invite us to parties, dinner, on holiday or weekends away. I won’t feel overlooked, I promise, instead I will feel that you are trying to protect us and for that, I thank you.

P.S For those who know me well, photos of said puppy murderer can be found on Facebook!