It is a weird and wonderful thing but, wherever we are going, and however well organised I am, we always end up with Mr B chivvying me up and telling me we will be as late as the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.
Take this morning. The only entry in our desk diary was “Flu Jabs” at 12.15. In my best scribble I had also noted that we were in Yellow Group. Our GP surgery
has clearly gone back to Primary School. I have no idea whether there is any significance to the fact that we are in the Yellow Group or even, indeed, whether we should be aspiring to the Green Group or the Blue Group. Because I wasn't feeling well, we
had to cancel our last appointment but, if we had been able to keep that appointment then we would have been in the Pink Group. Is the Yellow Group better than the Pink Group? I need to know...
Anyway by 11 a.m. I am up, showered, dressed, breakfasted. I have checked my emails and Facebook and entered all yesterday’s points, more or less faithfully, on the on-line Weightwatchers website. Mr
B saunters off upstairs and says he will soon be ready.
By 11.15 I have washed up the pans left over from last night’s dinner (we had to be out of the house
by 7 pm for our cribbage group or, of course, I would have washed them up straightaway. Possibly) and I have turned on the dishwasher. I call up the stairs to advise Mr B that we now have an hour to get to the surgery. I can tell, from the general direction
of his response, that he is in the study / bedroom on the computer, presumably checking and chortling over the latest jokes sent through by my brother. Every morning, when Mr B checks his emails, he ponders: “I wonder how late your brother was up last
night?” By which he means, how many jokes will be in his In Box.
By 11.30 I have loaded the washing machine with the
sheets and pillow cases from our bed and swept the kitchen floor. I call upstairs to tell Mr B that we now have three-quarters of an hour to go. His voice wafts down from Way Up There informing me that he knows the time and he will be ready in plenty
of time. He is still in the study, I can tell. My brother must have been up late last night...
At 11.45 there is a little edge into my voice as I inform him
that we now only have half an hour before we have to join the Yellow Group. In the last quarter of an hour, I have hand-washed five jumpers (four of his and one of mine) plus our Union Jack flag, last used to adorn the dining room table when we welcomed a
friend who has just acquired British Citizenship. It is always worth having a Union Jack about the house, I have found, you never know when it might come in useful.
At this point I decide to telephone the Middle of the Darling Daughters to make plans for a meal out next weekend to celebrate her birthday. We are in the middle of a great chat about Anything and Everything when Mr B appears at the top of the stairs.
Why am I not ready? he enquires. Why do I not have my coat on? Have I any idea how late it is? Why am I never, ever, ready on time?
It’s a bit rich, don’t