One Weekend. Three Lives.

My weekend: get up at 4 am Saturday to drive hired van to Southampton to collect student son. Find him asleep and not packed (after some sneaky early morning geocaching in the Itchen Valley). Load van with bags of clothes, furniture, books etc and drive back to Devon. Unload van to hallway and dining room. Take van back to Newton and catch train home. Assist in moving contents of van to landing for transfer to attic bedroom, and to cellar for storage. Note that the young man is getting very good at getting on with things (even though his room is a tip). Get supper for me and him. Load and unload washing machine several times, hanging stuff out to dry each time. I calculate at least 18 pairs of boxers and at least 372 t-shirts.
Do weekly shop. Change bed.
Sunday, wake up, get brekkie, continue to load and unload washing machine, mop kitchen and hall, study and bedroom, dust and hoover, prepare Monday's supper, do some shopping (for stuff I'd forgotten) and recycling taken over the road. Clean bathroom and toilet. Take more stuff upstairs. Get washing in and load ironing basket. Trip to allotment for an unsuccessful struggle with The Weeds of Neglect. Bring home crops (I broke a pea plant).Backache. Prepare tonight's supper. Sod it, go to pub for lager and sunshine. More washing. Just about to go for a snooze, when get visit from son, daughter, daughter's daughter and son and friend.

His weekend: get woken at a stupid hour, leap out of bed, stuff possessions in bags and boxes. Help load van. Pay outstanding bills, once I found my wallet. Hoover and wipe now empty room, remove blutack etc. Say goodbyes. Get in van, discuss grandad's battle with cancer with dad and decide I will visit him after Festival in Cornwall where I am working next week, cos there just aint time before, and I have paid to go and wont get my money back if I dont show. Go to sleep in the van. Help unload van and put some stuff away. Put most clothes out for wash because 1. I am uncertain which have been worn, and 2. there is a ridiculous lack of storage space in my room, and 3, it's easier that way. I am so much better at this when dad doesnt nag (thanks for telling him, Mellie). Have supper. Go to sleep at 6pm on sofa, wake up at ten, have second supper. Wash up. Go on computer for rest of night.
Sunday. 1pm. Get up. Have brekkie. Wash up. Find and use old toothbrush. Go out on bike. Visit sister. Bring back nephew and neice and friend to spoil dad's snooze. Advise Dad and M that I dont mind if my clothes aren't ironed

Her weekend: Friday. Leisurely train journey to Bath. Meet friend at the Hilton. Have Cocktails. Go to the theatre to see Nigel Havers. Restaurant and more cocktails.
Saturday. Sleep in, go shopping. Cocktails and champagne. Restaurant. Bed.
Sunday: more of same, then train home to get on with the housework. Oh! Someone's done it. But hey get the ironing pile.
Oh well, that's my job. He's a man, he's not allowed to do it even though he keeps on trying to do it when I am not here.

Me again. I am quite capable of ironing, thank you.