THE thing about having a birthday party for your child at home is that you have to actually clean that home before you can let anybody into it.
Well, anybody not wearing a Hazmat suit anyway.
I don’t know what I was thinking. It started a couple of weeks ago when we went out to visit Mammy Dunne and in a fit of inspiration invited her to stay the night of Seán’s birthday.
His birthday is Easter Saturday, you see, and we were planning to have Mammy Dunne and the inlaws for their dinner on Easter Sunday anyway so it made sense for her to stay, rather than going home and having to come back out to us a few hours later.
“That’s a great idea now, if you don’t mind. I will stay, I’ll pack an overnight bag and all so I will,” she sez delighted with herself.
All was going swimmingly until we were driving home and I noticed Yer Man shooting me terrified, alarmed looks out of the corner of his eye.
“WHAT?” I eventually yelled when I could stand it no longer.
“Nothing, nothing,” he babbled “it’s just you asked your Mam to stay …”
“YES?” I roared “and what’s wrong with that? Not good enough for you is she? Don’t want her staying? You thundering bastard, I have to say, I’d never treat YOUR mother like…”
“KAREN!” he cut me off, mid-rant “it’s not that. It’s just – where is she going to stay?”
“In the bloody spare room, you big thick, where do you …”
I trailed off, remembering. The spare room. Or The Room of Death as it’s more commonly known around these parts.
The room where we open the door ONLY to chuck in more rubbish, closing it quickly lest our eyes be offended by the filth within.
The room that hasn’t been hoovered since 2010. The room where odd socks go to die.
I looked at Yer Man, horrified.
“We’ll have to clean it,” I managed, gasping for breath.
“I know,” he murmured comfortingly, patting my hand “I know.”
We drove the rest of the way home in silence. Thinking about the beast lurking within our home.
Today is D-day. It’s time to slay the beast.