Well, what do you think? My mother-in-law, Margaret’s relatives arrived two weeks before Easter, and by the looks of it, they’ve no intention of leaving anytime soon.
I, Eleanor, don’t know whether to laugh or cry. These guests are quite the handful, and it seems they’ve decided to turn our house into their personal inn. Margaret, instead of reining them in, just nods along and keeps plying them with scones. And don’t even get me started on my husband, Paul, who acts as though none of this concerns him. So, I thought I’d share this with you, because I’m genuinely curious whose patience will snap first—mine or theirs.
It all began one morning when I woke to the sound of clattering in the kitchen. I thought, perhaps Paul had decided to surprise me with breakfast? Oh, how wrong I was. I walked in to find a whole delegation: Aunt Vivienne, her husband Harold, and their daughter Penelope, all the way from some dreary little town where, judging by their stories, life is duller than a week-old loaf. They’d come for Easter, but clearly, they’d decided the celebration started a fortnight early. Margaret, beaming like a Christmas bauble, was already bustling about the stove, whipping up a roast. “Ellie darling, they’re family!” she chirped. “We must treat them kindly!” Meanwhile, I took one look at the suitcases clogging the hallway and knew—this was going to be a long stay.
Aunt Vivienne was as loud as a foghorn. The moment she stepped in, she began lamenting how everything in their town was frightfully expensive, while we lived in “London’s lap of luxury.” At the same time, she launched into a full inspection of the house. “Oh, Eleanor, why are your curtains so dusty? And what *are* these stains on the rug?” she demanded, while rummaging through my cupboards as if auditing my linen-folding skills. I clenched my teeth and held my tongue, but inside, I was boiling. Harold, her husband, was the complete opposite—silent as a wardrobe, parked in the sitting room all day, glued to the telly and asking someone to “switch it to the fishing channel.” As for Penelope, their twenty-year-old daughter, she lived on her phone but somehow managed to devour half our groceries. Once, I walked into the kitchen to find her finishing my favourite yoghurt. “Oh, I thought it was *communal*!” she said. Communal, indeed—just not for *you*, Penny.
Instead of hinting that perhaps it was time for them to leave, Margaret only poured fuel on the fire. Every day, she cooked like it was a banquet: roast beef, shepherd’s pie, treacle tarts. Naturally, the relatives were thrilled. “Maggie, you’re a *godsend*!” Aunt Vivienne cooed, helping herself to seconds. I tried gently suggesting that perhaps Margaret needn’t spoil them so, but she just threw up her hands. “Eleanor, how *could* you? They barely visit once in a blue moon!” Yes, and by the looks of it, they’re settling in for another hundred years.
Paul, my husband, was the reigning champion of neutrality in this mess. “Paul,” I’d say, “please talk to your mother—ask her to *gently* remind them they’ve a home of their own.” And he’d just shrug. “Ellie, love, they’re *guests*.” Guests? More like permanent lodgers! I’ve even had to schedule my baths around Penelope’s endless selfies in the bathroom. Yesterday, Aunt Vivienne “helped” by scrubbing my best frying pan so hard it’s now ruined. “I thought it needed a *proper* clean!” she said. Oh, splendid—now it’s fit for the bin.
The best part? They’re *making plans*. Aunt Vivienne has declared she’d like to stay until the May bank holiday to “see how you Londoners do your barbecues.” Harold’s dreaming of a fishing trip with Paul, and Penelope keeps begging for a trip to *Harrods*, because their town has “nothing *halfway* decent.” I sit there wondering: when *are* they leaving? And more importantly, how do I survive until then without losing my mind?
I’ve started brainstorming ways to nudge them out. Maybe claim we’ve got the builders coming? Or that we’re off on holiday ourselves? But Margaret seems *delighted* by this invasion. Yesterday, she suggested throwing a grand Easter luncheon and inviting the neighbours. “Let everyone see what a *close* family we are!” she trilled. Close, indeed—except I feel like a stranger in my own home.
The only thing keeping me sane is my sense of humour. Every evening, once everyone’s retired, I pour myself a cuppa and imagine writing a book titled *How to Survive a Relatives’ Siege*. It’d have chapters on hiding food, smiling when you want to scream, and resisting the urge to throttle your mother-in-law for her *hospitality*. In all seriousness, I know this is temporary. They’ll leave, and our home will be ours again. But for now, I’m counting down the days to Easter and praying Aunt Vivienne doesn’t decide to linger until summer.
Tell me, does anyone else have relatives like this? And how on earth do you manage? Because I’m at my wits’ end, but I refuse to surrender. Maybe by Easter, I’ll have mastered the art of zen. Or at least learned to hide yoghurts where Penelope can’t find them.
