In the quaint English countryside, my husband Benedict came from a sprawling, lively familythree brothers and two sisters, each with their own households. Yet without fail, they descended upon our home as if summoned by some unspoken decree. Not for a modest cup of tea, mind, but for grand feasts. Birthdays, anniversaries, even the most obscure public holidaystheyd seize any occasion. And it was always at our place. Youve got the room! theyd cheer, as though our hard-earned, mortgage-laden cottage with its garden, grill, and ample parking was their personal holiday estate.
At first, I didnt protest. Having grown up an only child, I rather enjoyed the clamourthe cheerful chatter, the clinking of glasses, the occasional tipsy uncle belting out a pub tune. But gradually, it became less like a gathering and more like unpaid labour. Ever roasted a joint for fifteen ravenous relatives while they lounged about? The women would settle into the garden chairs with their Pimms the instant they arrived; the men would valiantly man the barbecue. Meanwhile, Id be wrist-deep in peeling potatoes, my curls wilting in the steam, my lovely frock traded for a gravy-splattered apron. Benedict would hover in the doorway, guilt etched across his face: Need a hand? Id force a smile. Im managing.
The bitterest pill? Emerging, flushed and frazzled, to find them all polished as if ready for Henley Royal Regatta, while I resembled someone whod tussled with a hedge. All I longed for was a single evening where I could sip my elderflower cordial in peace, not dash about like a harried barmaid.
After these ordeals, Benedict would quietly conquer the mountain of dishes while I collapsed into bed. He was just as wearyhis expression begging for a lazy afternoon with fish and chips and a dreadful telly marathon. But neither of us wished to cause a stir. Until his brother rang.
Were doing my birthday at yours, yeah? Same as last year.
Benedict hung up, turned to me, and delivered his decree: Tomorrow, you wake up, slip into that posh frock you never wear, fix your hair, perhaps even dab on a bit of rouge. But the kitchen? Strictly forbidden. Not so much as a teaspoon.
I stared. But what about
No. They can bring their own fare. Youre not their innkeeper. We deserve a respite too.
The following day, the troop arrived, arms laden with Sainsburys bags of bangers and Waitrose puddingsonly to find a conspicuously empty table. The hush was exquisite. Benedict, ever the tactful one, declared: New rules. Contribute or take your revels elsewhere. Were retiring as hosts.
Cue stunned whispers and the most restrained festivities in memory. But lomiracles do occur! The next event? Hosted by his sister. As it turned out, they *could* manage. They merely needed a nudge.
