The unexpected visit

Today is the first day of the rest of your life.
Yer, well that’s a joke for a start. I’m still clearing up after the boys. Not that I mind them crashing in at midnight on a Friday night and camping out on the floor all weekend, it was good to see them, but they could have given us some notice.
“Surprise,” isn’t quite what you want to hear coming from your mobile at 11:45pm, “We’re at the train station.”
“That’s nice dear, are you on your way home?” I ask in the dark, fumbling for the bedside lamp.
My husband rolls over and grunts something unintelligible.
“It’s Jack,” I whisper as I try to cover the mouth piece for fear of what my husband is about to say next.
“What the bleep, bleep, bleep, mumble, is he doing ringing at this time of night?”
“He’s at the station, I think he’s a bit drunk, he’s just asked if you could pick him up.”
Removing my hand from the keypad of the phone, I try to calm a very exited young man.
“Oh, you’re here, you mean, Wigan station? You want your dad to come and get you?”
The other bedside light turns on and I look down upon a very perplexed and angry man.
“Yes dear, I did say you could come up whenever you wanted, but it would have been nice… oh you thought it would be a good idea. Yes, well it is and yes you are welcome any time, I’ll just give the phone to your father. No sorry dear your father is in the toilet. Yes, it’s Ok, I’ll tell him, you just wait there.”
“Mark,” I don’t quite know what action started first, the picking up my dressing gown from underneath the dog who had made it her bed for the night, or actually stepping out onto the floor. “Mark, you need to get Jack from the station.”
“What station, what’s going….hang on, I’m going to the loo.”
It was a very grumpy tired old man that left the house thirty minutes later as I crashed and banged very quietly so as not wake the neighbours.
It was a very happy and proud man that walked back in, towing two bedraggled young men with him.
How much time does it take to find beer, open bottles and start drinking. The answer is, as much time as it takes me to get from the bedroom to the dining room. It’s a small house.
A weekend of rugby, roasts and relaxation. Or screaming lads watching the six nations, lots of cooking and clearing, and exhaustion.
They left last night so today really is the first day of the rest of my life. And it’s empty and quiet. They may not be my biological children but they are my boys and I miss the excitement young people bring to a home.

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