My mother and brother came to visit for the weekend (my father steadfastly refusing to fly since he retired and doesn’t have to any more). There were many presents and there was much delight. All this love-in stuff is very tiresome for the blog reader so I will get straight to the only blog worthy incident of the weekend.
Due to my sister’s enormous carbon footprint and many years spent in hotels (insert here bitter mumbling from my brother about expense accounts – he is a lab rat and has never had one and absolutely refuses to believe that eating out can be torture as well as pleasure), she was able to book my brother and mother into a swish hotel in Brussels on her various points. This was, frankly, welcome as our flat is too small to accommodate two visitors who do not want to sleep together. This is relevant, bear with me.
So, on Friday afternoon, the Princess and I took my mother and brother to their hotel. My mother and I sat and chatted in her room while my brother unpacked in his and entertained her highness.
As I sat there with my mother, I heard a mournful little voice saying, “I want my mummy”, so I flew to her side. My brother was standing in his room looking sheepish. “I did a poo Mummy,” she said “and it won’t go away”. I went in to the bathroom and discovered that she had done a poo in the bidet; look, it’s the size of a kiddie toilet. So while my brother stood cowering outside and my daughter put her hands over her eyes saying, “that’s disgusting”, I took some toilet paper and transferred the poo bit by bit to the toilet.
This was not included in my original job description.