Juggernaut

A juggernaut is heading our way, arriving tomorrow at 10.00am. I call this woman a juggernaut because she will eat anything and everything. There is no such thing as a 'left over' in her vocabulary.

I recall the last time she and her father visited. It was winter and I made a thick and hearty beef stew, with mashed potatoes and peas. R finished off one plateful and asked if there was any bread. She filled her plate again while I fetched the bread and butter. Once she'd demolished another plateful and half a loaf of bread, she had the sheer audacity to ask: "What's for dessert?"

I quickly made a microwave dessert of which she had a bowlful with ice cream, then another. Her father, G., declined dessert, but watched his daughter with affectionate indulgence. The following morning, the big bowl with the dessert in it was in the sink, unsoaked, with one of our larger spoons carelessly tossed in.

I had to reassess the food stocks for the menu I'd set - and get in more Coke. When not eating, she was busily deriding her father, her students (she's a teacher), asking about my mother's antiques, stuff that was in no way any of her business, checking the silverware and the housecleaning.

As an example of conversations:

G.: "You've got the Limage in your flat, don't you?"

R.: "Yep. It'll come to me when you're dead anyway, so why wait?"

For two days this went on. When they left, I cleaned the guest room and found empty chip packets and empty biscuit bags and crumbs everywhere. Worse, the springs in the bed were, shall we say, stretched a little? I don't think I ever been more appalled at someone's behaviour.

Of whom do I speak? Relatives from distance lands? Wealthy family members, perhaps, who indulge their bad behaviour because of The Will? No. They are, believe it or not, former neighbours.

Neighbours who moved to Sydney some fifteen years ago.

G. had called a week ago to arrange coming down, but my mother got to the phone first - and she's going deaf (refuses to get a hearing aid, too). She's telling him to speak up, and he's obviously replied that he'll call later, but he wanted to stay four days or so.

The conversation on the phone this time?

Me: "Hello?"

R: "It's R, we'll be down on Monday."

Me, trying to be polite: "Oh, great, how long will you be staying?"

R: "Shall we arrive morning or afternoon?"

Me, mentally swearing and cursing at the lack of a length-of-stay: "Morning would be good."

R: "We'll see you at ten, then."

Me, depressed, but with feigned politeness: "Look forward to it."

With family, they don't mind if there are magazines scattered, a few unwashed cups and unmade beds. But my mother? She's English, with the English need to have everything in tip-top shape so guests will have no reason to complain. To keep her happy, I've been scrubbing floors and walls, vacuuming carpets, mowing the lawns and finally managed to wash the dog. You'd think it was spring instead of autumn.

At the moment, I feel like a slave; both to having a tidy, sparkling clean two-storey house and to the social mores of another era. I'll also be in the kitchen a lot, cooking up a storm (for that, I'm grateful - I like to cook). It will be up to my mother to entertain them, they were her neighbours, not mine.

Me, I'm heading to my desk to work - and, by the Goddess, if R. bothers me... the result will be... unpleasant.

It's a shame I can't abandon them. Four days. Four f***ing days! I'll just keep telling myself: This too, shall pass. Maybe it won't seem like torture.