Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 22

You can’t have a decent conversation if there is a goat in the vicinity. They always butt in...

It’s thattime of year when the sun wakes up and beams a few warm rays our way.  Everybody is deliriously happy about ‘the goodweather’.  Suddenly joggers abound, theirchalk white limbs poking optimistically out of shorts.  I like the warmer weather.  It means the pooch and I don’t get rained onwhen going for a walk.  It also signalsthe start of various charity runs.
Yesterday,as I was picking up my emails, Eleanor stuck her head round the study door.
            ‘It’s Sport Relief tomorrow,’she said, ‘and I’m doing a sponsored run.’
            ‘Jolly good,’ I murmured spottingan email from Neighbourhood Watch.  HAVEYOU SEEN THIS GOAT? demanded the subject line.
            ‘Will you sponsor me?’ askedEleanor.
            ‘Of course,’ I said clickingon the email.  There was a mug shot of a goatwhich had apparently broken out of some neighbouring allotments and buggeredoff.
            ‘I’m running three miles,’ Eleanorcontinued, ‘so will you give me a pound a mile?’
            I read the email’s blurb.  The heartbroken owner of the goat begged foranybody with information to get in touch via a mobile number.  ‘Anything you want,’ I said absent-mindedly.
            Eleanor’s eyes lit up.  ‘Well twenty quid would be great, thanks Mum!’
            I decided to take the poochfor a walk and keep my eyes peeled for a runaway goat.
That eveningmy husband took me out to dinner.  I lookforward to Saturday nights as we tend to be like passing ships during the weekand it gives us a chance to actually see something of each other.  As Spring heralds the time of year for mebeing a golf widow, Mr V likes to update me with a blow by blow account of howhe fared around the green.  As there areeighteen holes on a golf course and it takes about four hours to go from startto finish, you appreciate Mr V’s recital isn’t a five minute tale.  I did lots of oohing and aahing and promptlyzoned out.  My thoughts travelled toEleanor and something about doing a run for Sport Relief on Sundaymorning.  Was that this Sunday or nextSunday?  And I really must remember to goto the cash dispenser and get some money out so I could pay the maths tutor andthen give Eleanor her three quid sponsor money and perhaps a little bit extrafor effort.
            I zoned back into Mr V’sconversation.  ‘And the ball was stuck inthe bunker but I chipped it out,’ he waggled his wrists by way of demonstration,‘and I said to myself, “Oh yes!  Eat yourheart out Tiger!”’ I privately thought that Tiger Woods might not havebeen in the bunker in the first place.  ‘Andthen...,’ my husband continued, so I promptly zoned out again.  I decided to bring up the subject of oursummer holiday when the next instalment of The Rider Cup was over.  I took a sip of Bacardi and, for a moment,allowed myself to drift off to a place that strongly resembled Paradise where turquoisewaves lapped white sand.  ‘So what do youmake of that?’ asked Mr V.
            ‘Amazing,’ I replied.
            ‘That’s what I thought,’ saidmy husband.  ‘I mean, it’s not every dayyou see a goat trundling along the Top Dartford Road.’
            Like a rubber band, myconcentration sprang back to reality.  ‘Whatgoat?’ I asked straightening up.
            ‘I just told you,’ said Mr V, ‘therewas a goat.  Trotting along.’
            ‘Didn’t you stop the car,’ Iasked, ‘and grab hold of it?’
            ‘What for?’ Mr V looked at meblankly.
            ‘To catch it!’ Iexclaimed.
            ‘Well, no.  I presumed it belonged to somebody,’ Mr Vlooked perplexed.
            ‘Didn’t it strike you as oddto see a goat happily heading towards Dartford?’ I asked incredulously.
            ‘Well yes and no,’ said Mr V, ‘Ithought it was being taken for a walk. You know,’ he shrugged, ‘like a dog. But off the lead.’
            I stared at my husband.  ‘What, as in the owner wasn’t far away andany second now would put his fingers to his lips, let out a piercing whistleand yell, “Oi Billy!  Heel!”’
            Mr V nodded in agreement.  ‘Something like that, yes.’
            I’vesince told Neighbourhood Watch that the goat was last seen heading towardsDartford, possibly toward the A2 where it might thumb a lift to London.  Meanwhile my daughter has presented me withher invoice to be settled at the end of today:
            One train ticket to London £5
            One Sport Relief t-shirt £8            Restaurant bill after race £15
            Sponsorship £20
            Total £48.

Where’sthat goat?  I’m joining it.

You can't have a decent conversation if there is a goat in the vicinity. They always butt in...

It's thattime of year when the sun wakes up and beams a few warm rays our way.  Everybody is deliriously happy about 'the goodweather'.  Suddenly joggers abound, theirchalk white limbs poking optimistically out of shorts.  I like the warmer weather.  It means the pooch and I don't get rained onwhen going for a walk.  It also signalsthe start of various charity runs.
Yesterday,as I was picking up my emails, Eleanor stuck her head round the study door.
            'It's Sport Relief tomorrow,'she said, 'and I'm doing a sponsored run.'
            'Jolly good,' I murmured spottingan email from Neighbourhood Watch.  HAVEYOU SEEN THIS GOAT? demanded the subject line.
            'Will you sponsor me?' askedEleanor.
            'Of course,' I said clickingon the email.  There was a mug shot of a goatwhich had apparently broken out of some neighbouring allotments and buggeredoff.
            'I'm running three miles,' Eleanorcontinued, 'so will you give me a pound a mile?'
            I read the email's blurb.  The heartbroken owner of the goat begged foranybody with information to get in touch via a mobile number.  'Anything you want,' I said absent-mindedly.
            Eleanor's eyes lit up.  'Well twenty quid would be great, thanks Mum!'
            I decided to take the poochfor a walk and keep my eyes peeled for a runaway goat.
That eveningmy husband took me out to dinner.  I lookforward to Saturday nights as we tend to be like passing ships during the weekand it gives us a chance to actually see something of each other.  As Spring heralds the time of year for mebeing a golf widow, Mr V likes to update me with a blow by blow account of howhe fared around the green.  As there areeighteen holes on a golf course and it takes about four hours to go from startto finish, you appreciate Mr V's recital isn't a five minute tale.  I did lots of oohing and aahing and promptlyzoned out.  My thoughts travelled toEleanor and something about doing a run for Sport Relief on Sundaymorning.  Was that this Sunday or nextSunday?  And I really must remember to goto the cash dispenser and get some money out so I could pay the maths tutor andthen give Eleanor her three quid sponsor money and perhaps a little bit extrafor effort.
            I zoned back into Mr V'sconversation.  'And the ball was stuck inthe bunker but I chipped it out,' he waggled his wrists by way of demonstration,'and I said to myself, "Oh yes!  Eat yourheart out Tiger!"' I privately thought that Tiger Woods might not havebeen in the bunker in the first place.  'Andthen...,' my husband continued, so I promptly zoned out again.  I decided to bring up the subject of oursummer holiday when the next instalment of The Rider Cup was over.  I took a sip of Bacardi and, for a moment,allowed myself to drift off to a place that strongly resembled Paradise where turquoisewaves lapped white sand.  'So what do youmake of that?' asked Mr V.
            'Amazing,' I replied.
            'That's what I thought,' saidmy husband.  'I mean, it's not every dayyou see a goat trundling along the Top Dartford Road.'
            Like a rubber band, myconcentration sprang back to reality.  'Whatgoat?' I asked straightening up.
            'I just told you,' said Mr V, 'therewas a goat.  Trotting along.'
            'Didn't you stop the car,' Iasked, 'and grab hold of it?'
            'What for?' Mr V looked at meblankly.
            'To catch it!' Iexclaimed.
            'Well, no.  I presumed it belonged to somebody,' Mr Vlooked perplexed.
            'Didn't it strike you as oddto see a goat happily heading towards Dartford?' I asked incredulously.
            'Well yes and no,' said Mr V, 'Ithought it was being taken for a walk. You know,' he shrugged, 'like a dog. But off the lead.'
            I stared at my husband.  'What, as in the owner wasn't far away andany second now would put his fingers to his lips, let out a piercing whistleand yell, "Oi Billy!  Heel!"'
            Mr V nodded in agreement.  'Something like that, yes.'
            I'vesince told Neighbourhood Watch that the goat was last seen heading towardsDartford, possibly toward the A2 where it might thumb a lift to London.  Meanwhile my daughter has presented me withher invoice to be settled at the end of today:
            One train ticket to London £5
            One Sport Relief t-shirt £8            Restaurant bill after race £15
            Sponsorship £20
            Total £48.

Where'sthat goat?  I'm joining it.

Happy Mothers Day

When weare young many of us automatically assume we will follow in the paths of ourparents, find a partner and go on to have children.  And for most of us this does indeedhappen.  I can remember excitedlyreaching the point in my marriage where a baby was on the agenda.  And then waiting in vain as month aftermonth, nothing happened.  The first yearturned into a second year which then rolled into a third. 
It isdifficult watching friends around you start their families without so much as ablip.  'Oh,' one friend happily told me, 'myhubby only has to look at me and I'mbig with child.'  Jolly good.  Jolly, jolly good.  Except it isn't jolly at all.  Although you are delighted for your friendand wish her and her growing bump all the love and luck in the world, I wouldbe a liar to say that a part of me was envious beyond belief.  I never turned into one of those women whocouldn't look at a pram without bursting into tears, although again I would bea liar to say a tiny bundle tucked into a sea of fluffy blue or pink blanketsdidn't make me feel sad.  I eventually made an appointment with a gynaecologist to findout what was wrong.  And then, just as Iwas about to have investigative surgery, I was suddenly pregnant. 
My sonwas born nine months later and it was a joy. Hurrah.  A mother at last.  I took great delight in wheeling my own pramaround and showing off my own tiny bundle tucked into said blue sea of fluffyblue blankets.  But hormones are a funnything.  After promising God that if Iwere granted just one child I'd never ask for another, I found myself longingfor Baby Number Two.  I wasn't surprisedwhen, once again, the months turned into years. This time around I did have investigative surgery.  And discovered that thanks to a burstappendix and peritonitis at the age of 19, I had almost totally blockedfallopian tubes and scar tissue stuck all over my intestines.  The gynaecologist was amazed I'd everachieved a pregnancy with my son.  Soeverything was put right and, thankfully, my daughter followed very soonthereafter. 
Some ofus become parents so easily, and for others it is a real difficulty.  But of one thing I am sure.  It is a blessing tobe a mother and one for which I am very grateful.  Happy Mother's Day everybody.

Gardeners learn by trowel and error..

Springhas sprung and suddenly I want to spend all my time in the garden.  However, following a recent op I'm not yetable to lift our steamroller of a lawnmower. So I asked Mr V to do the lawn.  Iwas a bit twitchy about this request. The garden is my domain after all. I don't have OCD for nothing and prefer my blades of grass to pointupwards, and the finished lawn to have that manicured criss-cross chessboardfinish.  Mr V assured me it wasn't aproblem, so I left him to it and set about digging over a flowerbed andplanting 180 mixed bulbs.
One hourlater I'd finished planting.  Mr V hadlong since disappeared.  He'd put thelawnmower away but left an extension lead out. It resembled a ball of tangled wool.

            'What happened to the extensionlead?' I asked incredulously.
            'I haven't the faintest idea,'Mr V scratched his head.  'It somehow gotall knotted up.'

Such is the way with MrV.  He does one job and makesanother.  Fifteen minutes later I'dsorted out the extension lead and put it away in the garage.  And that was when I discovered all the bags of grass cuttings dumped on my little ornamentalwheelbarrow.  I lifted the heavy bags offto find the wheelbarrow – awaiting a tray of seedlings to bloom – quite broken.

My husband runs acompany, is logical about money, wise about teenage tantrums and rarely loseshis temper.  It never fails to amaze mehow some people can be so good at certain things, and...well...not so good atother things.  I'm not the cleverest ofpeople, but like to think I'm practical – that what I lack in brain power Imake up for in common sense.  I tried notto let irritation get the better of me, took a deep breath, told myself the extensionlead was now useable again and possibly the wheelbarrow could be repaired.  At least it wasn't like the time when Mr Vhad taken a video tape from my bedside drawer and used it to record a footballmatch.  And erased every single filmedmemory of the children growing up. Feeling a bit more soothed, I walked past the lawn and stared inamazement.  Yes, quite moth eaten.
I decided to go in and make acup of tea.  The door to the kitchen hadbeen left open as it was such a beautiful day. I stepped into the kitchen and encountered my dog, an awful lot of mud andseveral flower bulbs.  Turning on my heelI went back to the flowerbed I'd not long since finished working on.  Yes, completely dug over by my pooch withbulbs all over the place.

Gardens are lovely places but notnecessarily Paradise.  I sighed and wentback to the kitchen to make my cuppa...

What do dentists and the current WIP have in common? The answer is pain...

Stayed upuntil nearly 3 in the morning drafting the third novel. Have now well and truly passed the half-way mark on the sequel toStockings and Cellulite.  Thanks to the lovelyemails received begging to know what happens next, Cass, Morag and Nell arereunited and this time they have a brood of babies.  Yes, Cass was most definitely pregnant at theend of Stockings.  What happensnext?  Well Morag might now be a yummymummy but she's still a sexual predator; Nell has also popped a sprog and is strugglingto get back into both her jeans and a routine, while Cass is jugglingweaning and getting her head around the reappearance of Selina, the glamorous Nemesiswho did her best to split Cass and hubby Jamie up last time around.  And if Selina has her way, this time she'lldo it permanently.  Yes, we're talkingmurder.

It is anuisance that when in the midst of thinking up murderous plots, real life getsin the way.  The telephone interruptedone particularly drug-induced chapter (the character being under the influence,not me) with my son calling from university.  'Hello darling,' I trilled, 'how lovely tohear from you.  How are the dentalstudies going?'  'Stressfully,' barked Robbie.  'My uniform is too big.  I look like a shepherd in a nativityplay.  Clinic is in tenminutes.  What can I do?'  Mothers are meant to solve these problemsinstantly.  Even from the other end of atelephone.  My son didn't appreciatebeing told to put a tea towel on his head and laugh it off.  Ten minutes later he'd bashed my credit cardand bought a smaller uniform.
Andtalking of dental matters, I had to visit the dentist this week.  Fifty quid to spend five minutes in a recliningchair that goes up and down and have a little mirror whizz around themouth.  'All looking super Mrs Viggiano,'twinkled the dentist.  Naturally his ownpearlies were whiter than white and one could almost see the accompanying littlestar bounce off an incisor.  Actually Idon't begrudge my dentist a penny.  He'shad a terrible time with me over the years thanks to an in-built fear of thedreaded drill and a low pain-threshold where root canal work is concerned.  That and overdosing on Marathon Man.  Utter torture.
Whichbrings me full-circle back to the writing. Because the insufferable Selina is about to dish out a bit of tortureherself...

You Can't Teach An Old Dog New Tricks...

This yearis a special wedding anniversary. Special enough that, at the time of tying the knot, Mr V promised hewould buy me an eternity ring.  Now likeall my sisters of the fairer sex, I'm not averse to the odd sparkler.  Especially a sparkler that has all sorts ofofficial papers declaring quality, clarity, weight, hefty price tag and then –upon the sun shining at a certain angle – frazzling your eyeballs with all thatvast sparkly diamond light.

However,there is a recession going on.  Thingsare tight.  Money is required not so muchfor diamond rings but astronomical bills. So I've suggested foregoing the eternity ring and Mr V agreeing to mehaving a second pooch instead.
As it hastaken umpteen years to finally drum training into our senior beagle's head, MrV is naturally not keen to go through it all over again. It's a bit like havingkids. Just when you've toilet trained them, taught them not to scratch theirarmpits, to cease snarling at you, stop lolling around on beds that don'tbelong to them and endlessly chastise them for eating you out of house and home...theygo and leave you.
We aredown to one teenager left in the nest and an ancient pooch. Every now and againwe think about downsizing too. Mr V is keen for us to move into a smartapartment and for me to swap country dog walks for running on a treadmill in aposh gym. Having worked out in the gym whilst skiing (thanks to extreme weatherand not being able to ski that much) I can honestly say that I was bored sillyrunning on a treadmill after just ten minutes. I've also been idly looking atproperties by the sea.  I have romanticvisions of walking a dog along a picturesque coastline, watching the sea poundingthe shoreline through changing seasons and holing up in a gorgeous attic room thatoverlooks the ocean whilst writing.
Meanwhileback to reality.  I shall take myself offto the supermarket for the Sunday shop. And continue to hound (no pun intended) Mr V over a second pooch...

How To Be A Good Sport – Part Two

Having determined that Mr V is officially a skidrop-out, my daughter and I set off husbandless and fatherless to PassoTonale.  My suitcase was lined with apile thermal underwear, brand new salopettes, three new ski jackets (becausethey were a bargain) and my old faithful all-in-one.  I don't know what made me throw in the oldfaithful all-in-one but I am very glad that I did.Lesson One. When buying new ski gear, it's no good admiring your silhouette in tightski pants and a fitted jacket.  Becausewhen you put your thermal clobber on underneath, you cannot make zippersmeet.  Not even a little bit.Lesson Two. If you buy ski gear in the sale because it's a bargain but then end uphanging it in the wardrobe throughout the entire week, it's a waste of money.Lesson Three. By dint of Lesson One and Two it's pointless clutching your credit cardstatement in one hand, your forehead in the other, and berating God for inventingsales in Decathlon and extreme weather conditions so vicious you can't see themountain in front of you – never mind ski down it.

And so it was Eleanor and I ventured out of ourhotel in minus fifteen to meet our ski instructor.  One hour later we were reduced to standing ona nursery slope with a wind blowing us sideways as zillions of ice particles gaveus the sort of dermabrasion treatment you pay a fortune for at the beautician's.  Our hands and feet went numb as the windchill factor took the temperature down to minus twenty-four.  Eleanor's lip jutted out and she uttered thewords, 'I think I'm going to cry.'  Thisis the sort of talk my feisty fourteen year old hasn't uttered since the age ofsix.  So cutting our lesson short, wesaid good-bye to the instructor before going off to thaw in a restaurant. 'Tomorrow,' Thomas called after us, 'drink bottleof red wines before leaving hotels.  Isgooda for cold.'  The thought of knockingback a bottle of red at any time of the day let alone 8.30 in the morning wasn'tsomething either of us was up for.  Norclearly that of a French schoolboy who ended up having two fingers amputateddue to frostbite.  No exaggeration.

As our extremities came back to life they wentthrough various colour transformations. Eventually we were able to slurp on a cappuccino – although holding the cupto our lips was precarious.  This wasbecause our throbbing fingers now resembled purple aubergines.  And talking of aubergines, I'm now remindedof our hotel's menu.As a vegetarian, the hotel restaurant assured Iwould be delighted with their meal options. Aubergine lasagne.  Spaghetti andaubergine.  Aubergine pie.  Baked aubergine.  One day they battered an aubergine and servedit with sweet and sour sauce.  Just whenI thought it was impossible to do anything else with an aubergine....da-da.... auberginetart.  With custard.  Don't believe me?  I have photographic evidence on my FB page!

After a first day of almost non-existent skiing,Eleanor and I retired to our hotel room. It was nice.  All knotty pine andelegant curtains.  On the wall over thetwin beds was a huge picture depicting three naked cherubs gambolling acrossthe canvass.  A previous occupant of theroom – possibly bored due to the extreme weather conditions – had taken a biroto one of the cherubs doing a full frontal and artistically added a hugeappendage.The following morning the weather was still cruellycold, but visibility good.  Thomasgreeted us and announced that today – thanks to the 100 mph wind dropping – we wouldbe able to use the chairlift to the glacier. Hurrah.  We were especially delightedthat our chairlift had a pull-down Perspex hood to keep us cosy on the ride up tothe glacier.  But not so delighted when,upon reaching the apex, the hood failed to release.  Yes, all the way back to the bottom.  Yes we did bring all the machinery to a halt.

And thus our skiing week got underway, in erratic fitsand starts.  When we were too cold tofeel the tips of our tongues in our mouths, we would head back to the hotelwhich was fortunately posh enough to have a Jacuzzi, pool and gym.  Never before have I booked a skiing holidayand found myself spending more time running on a machine that goes nowhere ordoing the breast stroke.Eleanor, a text addict (are their clinics for suchaddictions?), spent every awakening moment with her fingers pressing buttons onher mobile using the Blackberry Messenger service.  Every thirty seconds the phone would emit a brrrrrmmmm announcing a Status Update fromone of her zillion contacts.  This everso slightly drove me nuts.  If Eleanorcould have skied whilst texting, then she would have done so.  StatusUpdate – skiing a red run.  Thirtyseconds later  Status Update – Hot boy ahead.And talking of hot boys, the daughter's eyes were onstalks.  Oh yes, never before in hershort little life had she spotted so many gorgeous lads (Harry Styles look awaynow).  No sooner had I finished munchingmy aubergine supper, my daughter was gone. Didn't see her for dust. Fortunately I am a voracious reader, so whilst I did my bookwormimpression, my daughter was doing a different type of impression.  That of a doe-eyed helpless female standingin the lobby clutching an iPod that wasn't working.  Rescue was almost instant.  Instead of a knight on a white charger, alongcame the most handsome boy in the hotel with an iPod charger.  They went dancing.  They went to the arcade.  They went to the karaoke.  On the sixth night he hugged her.  On the last night he walked Eleanor back toour hotel room.  Eleanor was convinced hewould kiss her.  And maybe he would havedone had I not unwittingly opened the door as the pair of them were standingthere.  I don't know who was moreembarrassed.  Them or me.  Possibly me. A vision in a Donald Duck nightdress and face cream.Alas the skiing holiday is over.  Instead of coming home on a high, I feeldeflated.  Cheated out of my annualthrill.  But never mind.  There's always next year...

How to be a Good SportIn the last two years or so Mr V's ...

How to be a Good Sport


In the last two years or so Mr V's sporting habitshave changed phenomenally.  There was atime he'd be out on the football pitch, or standing on the fairway, or skiing downslopes participating in much expending of energy.  He still loves these things – but mostly fromthe comfort of his sofa.  Exercise isgentler with only the index finger doing push-ups as it connects with theremote control and flicks between different sports channels.  These days Mr V prefers to be a spectator ofskiers hurtling down slopes rather than emulating them; or verbally assistingWayne Rooney on how to pop the ball between the posts.  And as for Tiger Woods – well Mr V has onlythe greatest admiration for a man whose multi-legovers meant that for manymonths all Tiger's balls ended up in the bunker.
It's a tricky thing to balance when one of youstarts to slow down and the other isn't quite ready to follow.  And so it is, more and more, that I findmyself wandering – as William Wordsworth once wrote – lonely as a cloud as Ipower walk with my aging hound around the village lanes and farmland completelyon my tod.  Fortunately my other outdoor passion– skiing – is shared by my teenage daughter Eleanor.  But for how much longer is anybody's guess. IfHarry Styles clicks his fingers and gives her the nod, then I won't see her forsnow powder. However, at least for now I have somebody to share my chair liftwith as it cruises over snow-capped fir trees and scenery that resembles agiant wedding cake.  There is nothinglike sharing the horror of a black run.  Evenif it is on your backside.
So whilst I'm very disappointed that Mr V isn'tjoining us in Passe Tonale for the next week, I'm nonetheless very excited to havehauled out the suitcases.  Yes, they arestill not packed!  I have, however, whizzedinto Decathlon to make the sort of over-excited gasping sounds some women makein the Harrods January Sale...not the End-Of-Season aisle of a sportswarehouse.
            'Look,' I waggled a cream skijacket at Eleanor, 'look at my bargain!'
            'You already have two skijackets Mum,' she pointed out.
            'But this one is only atenner!' I beamed.
 A bargain or false economy?  I mean, do I really need three skijackets?  I'm a woman.  So the answer is yes.
And having bought all this thermal clobber, a smallpart of me wonders if I actually need it. Only this morning on the school run, I had to pull over and shrug off myjacket thanks to being ambushed by a violent hot-flush.  So here I come Italy, to ski down yourmountains in minus 14...quite possibly in just a t-shirt.

Indie Author Tag Party

I am taking part in my first blog hop today, its an indieauthor tagging party.


For everyone who visits from the linky list, please clickthe links to find my books on Amazon.co.ukor Amazon.com 


Thank you!

Sibling Rivalry

My son is home (briefly) from university.  I tell myself that he comes home because hemisses his family and relishes having his very own double bed in his very owndouble room with (because he's the only boy in the family) his very ownen-suite bathroom.  In reality I knowhome comforts have nothing to do with it and he simply wants me to attend tothe vast suitcase he is trailing.  Namelybecause it contains a fortnight's worth of washing.  Not to mention ironing.

So I open the front door and yell, 'Yoo hoo,' tonobody in particular, 'Rob's home.'  Mr Vis at work, so obviously no response from him. My step-daughter Rianna is not visiting, so ditto.  There is a creaking noise from thelanding.  The sound of the dog haulingherself out of her basket.  It goes onfor a bit.  The hauling that is.  The dog is getting on in years and herwaistline gave in to middle age spread years ago.  Eventually there is a thud as all four pawsfinally connect with the landing. Seconds later the dog makes a lethargic appearance and dutifully wagsher tail at Robbie.  So where is theyoungest?  I peer up the stairwell.  Eleanor's door remains resolutely shut.
Now at this point perhaps I should mention Robbie isnearly 19.  He's a young man.Independent.  Screamingly clever.  Motivated. An A* student who knows exactly where he's going in life. WhereasEleanor, 14, has freedom hampered by her age, is clever but lazy, and notparticularly motivated unless you mention words like 'shopping' or 'HarryStyles' (who she wants to marry one day). Is it any wonder therefore that Eleanor is jealous of her brother.
I knock on her bedroom door and tentatively goin.  A sullen face regards me from behindher laptop screen.  'Yes?' she askscurtly.  'Your brother's home,' I say.  'Yes, I heard you,' she snaps.  There then follows a little chat about thevagaries of being civil, saying hello, making conversation to a family memberwho now only has his big toe in the family nest.  'Why should I say hello first?' Eleanor demands.  Does it matter who says hello first?  Apparently so!
In due course Robbie finds his sister and sayshello.  'Hello,' I hear her mutter.  As he turns his back to walk away I catch mydaughter apparently bowing down to Mecca (in Robbie's direction) andworshipping the floor.  But her facialexpression is not one of adoration.  Ipretend not to see.
I cook dinner and we eat altogether.  This in itself is a rare event.  Mr V is still not home from work and if wewaited for his arrival frankly it would be bedtime.  Usually Eleanor takes her meal to the kids'room to watch 'documentaries'.  For this read'reality programmes'.  And I take myplate off to my computer where I bash out a few hundred words betweenmouthfuls.  By the time my meal isfinished it is always stone cold.  As wesit down at the table Eleanor's lip curls into its familiar teenage expression.  'I always know when my brother is homebecause napkins appear and we sit up at the table.'
By the time dinner is served a spat is in full swing.  Finally Robbie snaps. 'Just what is yourproblem?' to which Eleanor rumbles, 'You, oh favourite child!' It's only when Ithreaten to make free with roast potatoes and collapsing broccoli that the twoof them become silent.  'I have nofavourites,' I tell Eleanor firmly, 'you are both unique and amazing people whoI love dearly.'  To which Rob smiles andEleanor sneers.
In due course I clear up and the two of themdisappear upstairs.  As I load thedishwasher every single nerve within my body is on full scale alert.  When will they kick off again?  I hear noises.  Gentle at first.  Then rumblings.  And then the sort of din that has meabandoning everything and hot footing up the stairs two at a time.  I fling open my son's bedroom door ready tobreak up World War Three.
But instead a joyful sight greets my eyes.  The noise they are generating is one ofhappiness.  My children are sittingcompanionably together on the edge of Rob's bed, half watching a funny clip onYou Tube but also gabbling about university life, school life, teasing andtaking the Mickey out of each other, gossiping about their friends, tellingjokes, roaring with laughter and generally behaving like they are two long-lostbest friends.
I guess this is what sibling rivalry is.  A mixture of both loathing and love.  But right now it's love.  Long may it last...