Setting Boundaries: How a Husbands Ultimatum Changed the Game
My husband, William, comes from a loud, sprawling familythree brothers and two sisters, all with their own broods. Yet they descend upon our house like its a National Trust café with a bottomless tea pot. Not for a polite visit, mind you, but for full-blown banquets. Birthdays, anniversaries, even the most obscure royal memorabilia daytheyll seize any excuse. And its always at ours. Youve got the garden! theyd cheer, as if our painstakingly paid-off cottage in the Cotswolds, complete with its picnic table and room for cars, was their personal weekend getaway.
At first, I didnt mind. Growing up an only child, I enjoyed the hubbubthe chatter, the clinking pints, the inevitable tipsy aunt warbling *Rule, Britannia!* off-key. But slowly, it became less fun family time and more unpaid catering gig. Ever roasted a joint of beef for 15 ravenous relatives while they kicked back? The women would flop onto the patio chairs with their gin and tonics the second they arrived; the men would heroically man the grill. Meanwhile, Id be wrist-deep in sprouts, my hair puffing up like a disgruntled hedgehog, my nice frock swapped for a gravy-splattered pinny. William would hover in the doorway, looking sheepish: Need a hand? Id force a smile. Im grand.
The real kicker? Finally stepping out, flushed and frazzled, to find them all dolled up like theyre off to the Chelsea Flower Show, while I resembled something the cat dragged in after a brawl with the hoover. All I wanted was one evening where I could nurse my wine without playing butler to a crowd.
After these endurance tests, William would quietly conquer the mountain of washing-up while I face-planted into bed. He was knackered toohis expression begging for a lazy Saturday with a dodgy kebab and *Strictly Come Dancing* reruns. But neither of us fancied causing a fuss. Until his brother called.
Were doing my birthday at yours, yeah? Same drill.
William hung up, turned to me, and dropped the bombshell: Tomorrow, you wake up, put on that posh dress you save for weddings, do your hair, maybe even dab on some lipstick. But the kitchen? Hands off. Not a sausage.
I gaped. But what about
Nope. They can bring their own nibbles. Youre not their personal Greggs. We deserve a day off too.
The next day, the mob arrived, arms laden with Waitrose ready meals and Marks & Spencer puddingsonly to find a suspiciously empty dining table. The stunned silence was poetry. William, ever the smooth talker, announced: New policy. Contribute or take your shindigs elsewhere. Were retiring as hosts.
Cue shocked mutters and the most subdued party since the last rainy Bank Holiday. But lo and beholdmiracles do happen! The next do? Hosted by his sister. Turns out, they *can* cope. Just needed a nudge.
