Sunday morning found me wrapped up in a blanket on the sofa. My husband had gone to visit his mother in Oxford to change a lightbulb for her. But, as always, there was another reason for summoning her son home:
Dont tell me youve forgotten its Olivers birthday today? shed said.
My husband is, without a shadow of a doubt, hopeless with money. His salary barely lasts a week. At least he hands over enough for the gas and electric and a food shop, but every extra penny is frittered away on new computer games and all their latest accessories. I try not to make a fuss, really. Id rather he clattered away on his games than waste his nights getting drunk in the shed or wandering off to some pub. Besides, I once read that the first forty years of childhood are supposed to be the hardest.
Im not saying all this for sympathy, but to explain why my husband is always skint. Personally, I manage just fine. I even put a little away each month and often lend him a fiver here and there when he really needs it. But Ill never agree to finance his mother, his nieces, or his sister.
Naturally, I remembered it was Olivers birthday. Id bought his gift a week ago. And before my husband had dashed off to Oxford, I handed him the present and settled in with a mug of tea to watch a film. I made no attempt to join them; my in-laws and I share a mutual dislike, as British as that sounds.
They claim I dont love him because I refuse to bankroll their family or babysit their children. I did once agree to look after my sister-in-laws twins just for an hourthey picked them up after half a day, making me late for work. I had the cheek to mention I wasnt thrilled, and from then on, my mother-in-law and sister-in-law decided I was both shameless and rude. From that day, I made it clear I wasnt running their personal crèche. Still, I never minded that my husband enjoyed spending time with his little nephews; I rather liked mucking about with them too.
Not long after hed left, my husband turned up at our place with his entire clannieces, nephews, the lot. His mother strode right in, coat on, and announced, without so much as a cup of tea:
Weve decided Oliver should have a tablet for his birthday, one he picked out himself. It cost £400 and you owe me £200 for your share. Hand it over.
Honestly, I mightve given the boy a tablet, but certainly not something so dear.
Of course, I refused to give them a penny. Even my husband started fussing about how stingy I was. So, I switched on my laptop and called Oliver over. In five minutes, we found and ordered a gadget he was genuinely pleased with.
Oliver dashed off to show his mother, whod planted herself on our stairs. My sister-in-law has the stickiest fingersshe always manages to help herself to something. His mother didnt acknowledge my gesture at all. Instead, she was indignant:
No one asked you to buy anything. You shouldve just given me the money. You live off my son, and he cant even afford a lightbulb. Give me £200 nowyou know full well its his money.
She then reached for my handbag, which Id left on the bedside cabinet. I shot my husband a look and hissed, Youve got three minutes to get them out of here.
He didnt need more than that. He ushered his mother straight out the front door, not a word wasted.
Honestly, Id much rather my husband squander his pay packet on his gaming hobby than see his mother snatch up every last pound. Better he spends his money on things that make him smile than let this lot bleed him dry.
Sitting here now, I cant help thinking maybe I shouldve married an orphan instead!
