The babysitter

Aunty Dee is coming to stay. She's driving down tonight from the North east for babysitting duties. I've agreed, with great amount of complaining, whining and wingeing, to go up to Big Town and to the Posh Do with Dig. I've tried to get out of it. I put up a great amount of argument, pointing out all the drawbacks, miserable consequences, problems and hindrances that will inevitably arise if I go. Usually, people give in, and I win. Double success. I get out of things and I get top dog in the argument. But I meet my match in Dig.

First, the babysitting. There's no-one to babysit. NanJo's gone to university. Aunty Dee lives miles away. An agency's out of the question, and no-one's crazy enough to babysit triplets anyhow. Job done. But Dig gets on the phone to Aunty Dee. Next thing I know she's driving down the M1.

So I try the RSPB meeting. The children missed their meeting last month due to vomiting. They never got to show off their life-size albatross made out of wallpaper, currently rolled up in the umbrella rack. And if we went to Big Town, they'd miss it again. Tiger would be distraught. Shark would sulk. Squirrel would be psychologically damaged. I have to stay at home to take them. Dig says Aunty Dee can be a named driver on the car insurance and she can take them.

Aha! I say. Aunty Dee will get lost on the way. She will crash the car. Everyone will have to go to hospital. The children will be disoriented. Robin, the RSPB leader, will think I have abandoned the children and call Social Services. Dig's counter argument is not as clever as mine, but it is consistent, which is hard to combat. His argument is basically, 'So what?'

Then I try something a bit closer to home. I cannot wear a dress. I don't have a dress that fits. I wear jeans with vomit and paint on them. I have given away all my shoes. A freecycler called Gertie is wearing them. Dig says that since Aunty Dee will be here all day tomorrow I can go out and buy new shoes and a new dress. Damn.

Right. Some truths are called for. Dig will meet important people. They are big in commas all over the world. They make decisions with businesses worth millions of pounds. I'm a mother of triplets and I'm not going. Dig is cunning. He says I won't be invited next year so I can be rude to whoever I want to be rude to, and the food is good. This is a problem. I like being rude. And I like other people cooking for me. I agree to go. But I tell him that he had better be ready to visit the children in hospital after Aunty Dee has disoriented them and crashed the car. He says that's alright, and don't forget she's a social worker, so she should be able to deal with Social Services when they call.

So tomorrow we're off to Big Town. I've kept quiet about the fact that I got an Episode silk dress for £3 from the RSPCA and that the house clearance in Northumberland turned up a pair of serviceable black kitten heels. At the last minute I can't do anything about the coloured hair, apart from shave it all off, but that's a bit of a drastic tactic, even for me.

Well, I will just have to blog about my dreadful evening from the side of a hospital bed. But don't say I didn't warn you.