The marriage communication lines

Last week I mentioned the joy of being able to eat at a reasonable time when Mrs H goes out. I cater for myself, so I eat early and have this huge expanse of evening ahead of me.

I have drawn to Mrs H's attention all the expert advice that says you shouldn't go to bed too soon after a meal.

"Phworr!" she scoffs. "You only need two hours and you get that."

Of course, when a Brat comes round for a feed it's different. How often have I complained that they have this power over their mother that eludes me?

A couple of weeks ago Brat Major rang to say she would pop round after work one evening and stay to tea. Mrs H actually showed signs of stress and started cooking a good hour and a half earlier than normal.

"I better start the tea," she said with a hint of panic. "She'll be here soon; she won't be very pleased if it's not ready."

Hello? I'm not very pleased when mine's not ready.

As soon as Brat Major burst through the back door her eyes did a sweep of the kitchen to see what

stage the meal was at. Her glowering expression said it all.

I thought we were doing quite well. Mrs H was busy doing something innovative with… yes, chicken. And I was chopping the vegetables with my usual alacrity.

But this wasn't good enough.

"How long's it going to be?" she sighed with patient suffering.

"About an hour," said Mrs H defensively.

There followed another huge sigh. An hour in Mrs H speak is nearer two.

"What can I have to keep me going?" she whinged.

Fifteen years ago Mrs H would have said: "You're not having anything; you'll spoil your tea."

But the days when that could be enforced are long gone. By the time tea was nearing completion Brat Major had chomped her way through almost an entire packet of cheesy snacks.

And she ate all her tea.

Then last week it was Brat Minor's turn to book an evening meal. Once again Mrs H moved up a gear.

"Better get cracking. He'll be chomping at the bit."

Brat Minor is a bit more patient than his sister. While he does whinge, he can be sidetracked and he loses track of how long it is taking to prepare the meal.

He came for tea because Katherine, his

girlfriend, was meeting a friend. He, too, had arranged to meet a mate so what better than to drop in on the old folk, cadge a meal - and anything else that might be going - then, with any luck the old chap might get the taxi out and run him into the city.

Brat Minor has been with Katherine for quite a while but he hasn't yet twigged that having a partner means two-way communication is essential.

We had just finished tea when his mobile rang. It was Katherine; she had arrived home expecting to find her boyfriend there, so hadn't got her key with her.

Brat Minor had omitted to let her in on the secret that he was going out. He assumed she would be out all evening and he would be home before her.

We knew it was serious when he exited the room to take the call, white knuckles clutching his phone.

Twenty minutes later Katherine arrived at Fortress H to collect the key. They had a brief discussion which I suspect may have gone on longer if Mrs H and I hadn't been there.

I got an almost sadistic pleasure from seeing Brat Minor suffer as I have done. Clearly he had paid no attention when he was younger to the interaction between me and his mother.

Had he done so, he would know the rules of engagement.

Unless - oh no, don't tell me I've been getting it wrong all these years.