Welsh Boreders

We'd hit the jackpot on the Buckley Bingo within the first 3 hours of arriving at the quasi-in-laws which meant that Jack & I spent much of the weekend having to avoid eye contact with one another. I've learnt from past experience that there is no point in trying to introduce new topics of conversation as it just sends them into a silent panic, so we made appropriate noises as they executed their much-rehearsed script about America, Michael Owen and Bon Jovi.

I dipped out for bed as soon as it was polite to do so and proceeded to have some unusually vivid dreams concerned mainly with the imminent collision of the Earth with Mars, being given a beautiful black fur hearth rug only to find it had been made from Darius and being persecuted by paranormal phenomena in my home. Not that I'm saying the weekend was a complete nightmare.

I escaped long enough on Sunday morning to fetch a paper. That in itself caused much consternation. Completing the cryptic crossword in less than 15 minutes was tantamount to witchcraft in their eyes. I chose not to push for anything mildly cultural or stimulating for the rest of the day and happily tagged along to Chester, valiantly resisting any attempts to get over to the recently excavated amphitheatre or along the city walls.

The evening held some promise as a family friend, up from the New Forest for the weekend, was due to visit. In the event, they didn't let it spoil their enjoyment of the Beckham's party on their cinema-sized plasma screen, they just joined her in the conversation whenever there was a shot of a celebrity who wasn't Michael Owen while I tried doggedly to enquire about the ponies.

Jack braced himself for the inevitable visit to his father on Monday, handing me his wallet, chain and anything else of value in much the same way as he does before a rugby match. Meanwhile, his auntie took me to the garden centre, one of those vast aircraft-hangarsized places where you have to walk past miles of scented candles, floral notepaper, amusingly-patterned jumpers, fridge-magnets and objets d'art before you catch the merest hint of anything green and living. I bought some twisty spiky things to ram into my sweet-pea pots. She bought a book! Honest to God! Maybe I am having a greater influence than I erstwhile suspected. Ok - so it was Michael Owen's spectro-biography ( I am guessing that having shared a similar primary education to most of them, he wasn't likely to have written it himself) but at least it contained proper Chapters and not just articles and Advertising Promotions.

She'd saved the best 'til last. As we headed back to pick up our hold-alls and bid them farewell for another 6 months, I noticed she took a slightly different route. I wasn't particularly concerned as we appeared to be heading in the general direction of home and I supposed it to be a shortcut. I did wonder why we were slowing at the edge of a new housing estate, and then coming to a stop before a nondescript cul-de-sac. Yep! The Owen Family village, just round the corner from the Owen Family pub, the Owen Family barbers and the Owen Family Co-op. I'm so relieved we managed to cram that into a weekend busy with tea-drinking, telly-watching and dishwasher-stacking. It will be fascinating to go back and see what seasonal changes have occurred next time we venture across the Pennines, that's if she's still allowed within 50yds of any members of the Owen Family by then.

It's the long car journeys back from Wales when Jack and I do our strongest bonding.

NB. Picture courtesy of Google Images. It cannot be used as evidence in any future privacy actions.