From housebound drudge to lady of leisure

Dig is full of surprises. That may be one reason why I married him. (And hey, Daddy of Exploding Triplets, that was another big surprise, so thanks for that one. I definitely BLAME YOU.)

But today Dig comes into the kitchen where I am chained to the sink and says casually that I may like to clean out the spare bedroom now. I didn't know we were separating. Or that he was risking death by suggesting a refinement to the housework rota. But no. He says Aunty Dee is coming to stay. From tonight. What's more, he adds, looking smug, that she is coming to look after the children.

'Why?' I ask, thinking this could be the moment he has chosen to get me sectioned, although that would be inconvenient for us all right now, with the milkman needing a cheque and no onions in the house.

'I have spoken to some people' he says. I know something is going to happen, because this is how Dig's world works. There are people. People who do things. People who make things happen. Dig says there is a posh dinner happening in London and I can go, because he has fixed it, and now there will be an extra table there, and I can sit at it.

Is it a table just for me? I ask hopefully. Not for you alone, Dig says. That would be foolish and antisocial at a swanky dinner cooked up by proper chefs with hats. Then he says I can go so long as I share the posh table with posh people in suits, smile, and try not to say anything rude, childish or delirious. A tall order. But think about it, he says, because the food is very good and we get a couple of days off in the Big Smoke.

OK. I agree to the terms. I will shut my mouth unless I am eating chichi food with peeled salad gherkins. So, within the next 24 hours I must turn my mind from who ate the last piece of pie to more important matters. I must acquire a cleaned out spare bedroom, a smart haircut, legs suitable for a skirt, proper clothes into which I can squeeze an enormously fat arse, and all the classy trappings of a posh dame.

I immediately set about these Herculean labours. The spare bedroom is easy because there is just the Playmobil junk which I can kick under the bed. Anyway, Aunty Dee says she'll be here at tea time so that will be midnight. Plenty of time to do that.

Then there is hair. That is easy too. I cut it myself, and it takes half a bottle of wine and 30 seconds. I mean, how difficult can it be?

The legs problem I can abandon, since the only option is to sever them totally and dump them in a skip at the back of Tesco. There isn't time for that. I will just have to go with them. Anyway, this is probably the sort of event where people do not stare at my knees.

Clothes are a problem. As are accoutrements, like shoes, bag, and looking polished in anyway whatsoever. Nevertheless, with the promise of a two day release from the shires to swank about in London gorging on posh food from a man in a hat, I can solve it. I have a Minuet outfit bought last year in a sale. I bought it in a hormonal rush when it was either that or stab myself. I drag it out the wardrobe where Shark, Squirrel and Tiger dare not go in case it eats them.

So here it is. With cat? Or without cat? The divine illumination comes naturally.



Don't tell me I am wrong. It is too late. I choose with cat. Now shoes. And a pair of old ones will do. Spit and polish will be fine. Better than the non-matching shoes I wore last time when the heel dropped off. Bag? I have an old one from the charity shop which I am sure will look very retro.

So now there is nothing to stop me draping myself on Dig's arm and pretending this is the sort of life I lead everyday. What could possibly go wrong?