IT’S been a challenging week. I could put it down to tiredness, ineptitude or the early onset of senility, but whatever the reason, everywhere I turned, there was an ‘incident’ waiting to pounce.
It all started with a bout of forgetfulness. I had characteristically neglected to write a list for my routine weekly shop. But although I purchased a great deal more than I had bargained for, I was proud of my ability to plan the culinary week at such short notice.
After a lengthy and animated chat with the check-out girl, I hurried on about my business. Just as I was skilfully negotiating the cumbersome trolley around the intricate displays in the pharmacy, I realised that my purse, my bag and in fact all of my shopping was missing!
It had to be a record. I had actually managed to leave the supermarket with less than I arrived with. Hurrying back to the shop, to retrieve my goods, I thanked the assistant for her diligence and shamefacedly made my way back to the car.
Later that afternoon, when the children were back from school, I was cooking, cleaning, supervising and shouting, when suddenly I noticed my eldest son sneaking through the kitchen with a fishing net and a camera.
“What on earth are you doing?” I challenged him.
After some probing, I discovered that another of our winged friends had made its way into the house and my nature loving son was planning to move it to its rightful home without alerting his slightly nervy (bordering on hysterical) mother.
Needless to say, I refused to let him carry out his rescue mission and waited instead for Mr H to carry out his increasingly frequent bat duties.
While the men in my life were intent on returning our lodger to the wild, I decided that I needed to get out of the house, clear my head and restore my sense of well-being. I would go for a walk and take my youngest son with me.
Wrapping us both up against the autumn chill, I pulled out his ‘all terrain’ buggy and got ready for the off. But I had forgotten about the puncture. Despite being built for pushing up mountains and down valleys, one of the tyres had failed the hedge cutting test and was defeated by a stray bramble.
Refusing to be riled, I decided to make use of the recently purchased ‘emergency puncture repair kit’.
This handy little device is quite simply a can of foam with a nozzle attached. The idea being, when you find yourself with a flat tyre, simply fill it up with foam and away you go. Simple.
With little eyes watching my every move, I swiftly swung into action. Deftly turning the pram onto its side, I attached the nozzle to the valve on the wheel.
Then with a quick flick of the switch, I turned on the foam.
Nothing happened, so I gave it a gentle tap.
And then it exploded!
The whole top had come off and covered me, my son, his pram and most of the downstairs floor with foam.
Coughing and spluttering, I tried to turn off the switch, but it had dislodged itself completely.
The house was beginning to look like a scene from ‘The little porridge pot’. But unfortunately there were no magic words to stop the flow and it kept on going until the last bubble plopped onto the floor.
Surveying the damage, I stared aghast at my son who suddenly began to giggle. Taking one look at the state of us, I joined in. We were still laughing when the rest of the family found us.
Wiping the bubbles from my eye, I waved a hand dismissively over the carnage. “I know it’s a mess, but it does look funny doesn’t it,” I said, light heartedly.
“Not half as funny as all the smoke in the kitchen,” they replied.
Sweet Jesus! I had left the grill on.
Bubbles in the hall, bats in the belfry and fumes in the kitchen – I’ve had enough.
Wake me up in the spring time!