for
letting me stay. They've been so kind to me and, even if they are
getting something on their end, they've got every right to do so.
The smell of mint begins to
build as I move down the stairs, accompanied by the sound of boiling
water. As I round the bottom of the stairs and peer into the room, I
can see Marge busily cutting potatoes and dropping them into the
froth.
“ Sleep well?” she asks,
without turning to look at me. I guess she can hear the goings on in
her own house well enough, despite my intention of not making a
sound.
“ Brilliantly, thanks.” For
some reason, I still find it hard to call her Marge. I wish I knew
her surname so I could call her Mrs whatever is it.
“ Well you've timed things very
well. Derrick's just outside finishing up with the horses so should
be back soon.”
I look down at the kitchen table
and it's already prepared with 3 sets of plates and cutlery. There's
a fresh bowl of salad sitting with several dressings and other
condiments around it, and a couple of other large plates lying empty
in the middle. There's also an opened bottle of red wine and a glass
at each place.
“ Please dear, would you pour
me a glass of that wine. And one for yourself if you're up to it?”
“ Um...OK,” I say, grabbing
the bottle and filling the glasses. I expect to be driving again soon
after dinner, but one glass is OK I guess.
Marge now leans down to open the
oven and the smell of beautifully cooked chicken fills the air. It's
only now that I realize how hungry I am, so quickly take a sip of
wine to sate me.
For a few moments we talk,
mainly about the weather and how beautiful it's been, until Derrick
comes in from outside. He looks tired and worn, yet still carries an
upbeat tone to his voice.
“ Ah, well, you're up!” he
says to me. “I hope you're better rested now?”
I nod to him as he moves forward
and fills his own glass with wine. His first sip drains half his
glass, forcing him to top himself back up. He winks at me and
gestures to Marge, who's once more got her back to me as she pulls
the chicken from the oven.
“ Don't think I don't know what
you're doing Derrick. That wine's for sharing, remember.”
Derrick smiles wide again and
looks at me, like a naughty child being told off by his mother. I
can't help but laugh at the situation.
Dinner is delicious. Roast
chicken and beautifully boiled potatoes with plenty of greens. It's
just what I need. Something that'll keep me satisfied through the
night. After the main course Marge pulls something special from the
refrigerator – a two tiered chocolate cake covered in wild berries
and topped off with thick, white cream. It's stunningly delicious,
and I tell her so.
The time ticks by quicker than I
could imagine. By the time Marge starts clearing the plates,
insisting I not help her, I notice that it's already nearing 10 PM.
Now I'm feeling awkward again. I should leave. I've outstayed my
welcome.
I don't know if the awkwardness
tells when I speak, but I certainly don't feel comfortable all of a
sudden. “You two have been so kind,” I say, a little out of the
blue. “I don't know how to thank you, but I should go. I don't want
to be a burden.”
That last line – it almost
forces the other person to say “oh, you're not a burden”, and
then guilt trips them into inviting you to enjoy more of what they're
offering. In this case, that's safe accommodation for the night. But
then, that's not what I was trying to do. I was only trying to be
polite, not force them into letting me stay.
Of course, that's exactly what
they do, and after a little jostling, I give in. Their argument –
that's it late now and it's much more sensible to leave in the
morning – is perfectly valid, and they do seem to genuinely want me
to stay.
By the time the clock ticks by
to 10 PM, we've all moved into the living room and are settled in
front of the television. They tell me it's their routine – eat
late, then watch a bit of TV before
letting me stay. They've been so kind to me and, even if they are
getting something on their end, they've got every right to do so.
The smell of mint begins to
build as I move down the stairs, accompanied by the sound of boiling
water. As I round the bottom of the stairs and peer into the room, I
can see Marge busily cutting potatoes and dropping them into the
froth.
“ Sleep well?” she asks,
without turning to look at me. I guess she can hear the goings on in
her own house well enough, despite my intention of not making a
sound.
“ Brilliantly, thanks.” For
some reason, I still find it hard to call her Marge. I wish I knew
her surname so I could call her Mrs whatever is it.
“ Well you've timed things very
well. Derrick's just outside finishing up with the horses so should
be back soon.”
I look down at the kitchen table
and it's already prepared with 3 sets of plates and cutlery. There's
a fresh bowl of salad sitting with several dressings and other
condiments around it, and a couple of other large plates lying empty
in the middle. There's also an opened bottle of red wine and a glass
at each place.
“ Please dear, would you pour
me a glass of that wine. And one for yourself if you're up to it?”
“ Um...OK,” I say, grabbing
the bottle and filling the glasses. I expect to be driving again soon
after dinner, but one glass is OK I guess.
Marge now leans down to open the
oven and the smell of beautifully cooked chicken fills the air. It's
only now that I realize how hungry I am, so quickly take a sip of
wine to sate me.
For a few moments we talk,
mainly about the weather and how beautiful it's been, until Derrick
comes in from outside. He looks tired and worn, yet still carries an
upbeat tone to his voice.
“ Ah, well, you're up!” he
says to me. “I hope you're better rested now?”
I nod to him as he moves forward
and fills his own glass with wine. His first sip drains half his
glass, forcing him to top himself back up. He winks at me and
gestures to Marge, who's once more got her back to me as she pulls
the chicken from the oven.
“ Don't think I don't know what
you're doing Derrick. That wine's for sharing, remember.”
Derrick smiles wide again and
looks at me, like a naughty child being told off by his mother. I
can't help but laugh at the situation.
Dinner is delicious. Roast
chicken and beautifully boiled potatoes with plenty of greens. It's
just what I need. Something that'll keep me satisfied through the
night. After the main course Marge pulls something special from the
refrigerator – a two tiered chocolate cake covered in wild berries
and topped off with thick, white cream. It's stunningly delicious,
and I tell her so.
The time ticks by quicker than I
could imagine. By the time Marge starts clearing the plates,
insisting I not help her, I notice that it's already nearing 10 PM.
Now I'm feeling awkward again. I should leave. I've outstayed my
welcome.
I don't know if the awkwardness
tells when I speak, but I certainly don't feel comfortable all of a
sudden. “You two have been so kind,” I say, a little out of the
blue. “I don't know how to thank you, but I should go. I don't want
to be a burden.”
That last line – it almost
forces the other person to say “oh, you're not a burden”, and
then guilt trips them into inviting you to enjoy more of what they're
offering. In this case, that's safe accommodation for the night. But
then, that's not what I was trying to do. I was only trying to be
polite, not force them into letting me stay.
Of course, that's exactly what
they do, and after a little jostling, I give in. Their argument –
that's it late now and it's much more sensible to leave in the
morning – is perfectly valid, and they do seem to genuinely want me
to stay.
By the time the clock ticks by
to 10 PM, we've all moved into the living room and are settled in
front of the television. They tell me it's their routine – eat
late, then watch a bit of TV before
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