“My husband Oliver has a large, boisterous family—three brothers and two sisters, all settled with their own families now. Yet they descend upon our house like clockwork: not for a quick cuppa, mind you, but for full-blown feasts. Birthdays, anniversaries, even obscure bank holidays—they’ll find any excuse. And it’s always at ours. ‘You’ve got the space!’ they’d chirp, as if our hard-earned, mortgage-crushing countryside home with its patio, barbecue, and parking was their personal holiday retreat.
At first, I didn’t mind. Growing up an only child, I relished the chaos—the laughter, the clinking glasses, the occasional drunken uncle singing off-key. But slowly, it morphed into servitude. Ever prepped a roast for 15 hungry in-laws while they lounged? The women would flop onto the garden chairs with their Prosecco the moment they arrived; the men would ‘bravely’ take charge of the barbecue. Meanwhile, I’d be elbows-deep in potato peelings, my hair frizzing like a startled poodle, my nice dress swapped for a flour-dusted apron. Oliver would peek in, guilt written all over his face: ‘Need a hand?’ I’d grit my teeth. ‘I’ve got it.’
The real sting? Emerging, sweaty, to find them all glammed up like they were at Ascot, while I looked like I’d lost a fight with a salad spinner. All I wanted was one evening where I could sip my wine in peace, not ferry plates like a harassed waitress.
After these marathons, Oliver would quietly tackle the Everest of dishes while I collapsed into bed. He was shattered too—his eyes screaming for a lazy Sunday with takeaway curry and a rubbish telly marathon. But neither of us wanted to rock the boat. Until his brother rang.
‘We’re doing my birthday at yours, yeah? Same as always.’
Oliver hung up, turned to me, and dropped the bomb: ‘Tomorrow, you wake up, put on that fancy dress you never wear, do your hair, maybe even slap on some makeup. But the kitchen? Off-limits. Not a finger lifted.’
I blinked. ‘But what about—’
‘Nope. They can bring their own spread. You’re not their caterer. We’re allowed a day off too.’
The next day, the clan rolled up, arms laden with Tesco bags of meat and M&S desserts—only to find an eerily bare table. The awkward silence was glorious. Oliver, ever the diplomat, announced: ‘New rules. Pitch in or pack your parties elsewhere. We’re done playing hosts.’
Cue stunned murmurs and the most subdued ‘celebration’ in history. But lo and behold—miracles happen! The next gathering? Hosted by his sister. Turns out, they *can* manage. Just needed a bit of incentive.”
