The guests arrived unannounced, and Margaret frowned. She was overjoyed to see her son, but that *dragonfly* fluttering around Michael—ugh! The boy had gone soft, grinning like a lovesick fool.
“Mum, hello! We’ve come to visit—me and Emily,” he said.
“Oh, I see,” Margaret replied, hugging her son with a forced smile.
“Mum… we’ve got happy news!”
“Oh? What sort?”
“We’ve put in the notice—ta-da!”
“Goodness, so soon?”
“Soon? Mum, what do you mean? We’ve been together a year—we’re getting married!”
“Well, if you’ve gone and done it, you’ve done it. Make yourselves at home. I’ll just… pop to the shops, get something nice.”
Margaret needed air, a moment alone. How had her little bear cub grown up, moved to London, lived his own life, worked, and now—married? And to *her*?
“Mum, forget the shops! We’ve brought loads—ham, cheeses, fruit, the lot!”
Margaret slumped into a chair, exhausted. She wanted to cry, curl up like a child and sob. That *dragonfly*—that’s what she called Michael’s fiancée—was unbearable. Flighty thing. He needed a proper girl, someone local.
Take Alice Whitmore, for instance. A lovely, steady girl, trained as an accountant, worked at the library. She and Michael had shared a desk in school—why not marry *her*? They could’ve lived in London, visited often, brought grandkids. The Whitmores were decent folk, salt of the earth.
But no, he’d gone and found some city butterfly to parade about like she was the crown jewels. Ugh.
The youngsters unpacked their haul—posh meats, fancy cheeses, crudités, exotic fruit. Margaret sighed. Now she’d have to clear the fridge. And tomorrow—ugh—she’d have to cook, invite the neighbours and relatives. Might as well, tradition and all. Where was Geoff, anyway? Off at the pub again? Typical.
“Mum, we’re off to the river!”
“Fine, go then.”
The *river*! As if. If he’d come alone, he’d have helped his dad in the garden. But no, with *Princess* Emily in tow, it was all picnics and leisure.
Margaret raced around all day, a squirrel in a wheel, prepping for tomorrow’s gathering. Exhausted, she flopped down for a quick nap—only to jolt awake to chaos.
“What on *earth* are you doing?!”
“Mum, we’re setting up dinner—wanted to help while you rested.”
“Dinner? With the *good china*?! The crystal glasses?! Geoff, say something!”
“What’s to say? The kids are right—why let it gather dust?”
“Have you all lost your minds?!” She nearly wept. The crystal tumblers, the fine porcelain—ruined!
“Mum, what’s the fuss? We’re having a nice family meal!”
Margaret stormed off but caught a glimpse of *Dragonfly* hacking into the expensive pâté. Saved for a special occasion—now *wasted*.
“Mum, come on—get changed and join us,” Michael called.
She emerged—good lord, the *new tablecloth*, the *wine glasses*! The china she’d guarded for decades—*ruined*. And Geoff—dressed in his Sunday best, the shirt he’d only worn thrice!
“Margie, love, put something nice on—it’s a celebration! Our boy’s home with his… daughter-to-be.”
“Daughter?!” she hissed.
Michael tried to soothe her, but she snapped. *Her* house, *her* rules! The china! The pâté!
Geoff slammed his fist on the table. “Enough! What’s this ‘special occasion’ nonsense?!” He thumped his chest. “This is it—*right here*!”
Why live like paupers, eating from chipped bowls, when they had three full sets of fine china *just sitting there*?
Margaret blinked—then marched off. Moments later, she returned in her best dress, gold earrings, stockings, and heels.
Aunt Mabel dropped by, gaping. “Blimey, Margie—you’re done up like the Queen! And Geoff in his wedding shirt? What’s the occasion?”
“None of your beeswax, Mabel. Sit down. Michael’s here with his… *future daughter*.” She barely bit back *dragonfly*.
“Fancy that!” Mabel eyed the spread—serrano ham, brie. “Bit posh for a Tuesday, innit?”
“Come back tomorrow,” Geoff said. “Proper do then.”
Mabel scarpered, spreading word through the village: *The Turners have lost it! Eating off china, drinking from crystal!*
By morning, the house was packed. Everyone wanted to see the rebels who’d dared use their best things *now*, not “someday.”
“Eh, Petey,” chuckled Uncle Bert, swirling whisky in crystal, “hits different, don’t it?”
A revolution swept the village. Out came the good linens, the silver, the heirlooms. Even the grannies dug into their trunks, airing moth-eaten finery.
That night, Margaret mused, “Geoff… when *is* the ‘special occasion’? We wait and wait—live rough, save everything… for what?”
“Exactly, love. Why wait?”
“…Still, best keep *some* things new. Just in case.”
“’Course, Margie.”
***
Next door, Mabel upended her own chest.
“Woman, have you gone barmy?!” her husband yelped.
“From now on, we’re using the good sheets! And that rug—*now*!”
“But—your mother stitched those pillowcases—!”
“And she’s been gone thirty years! Move, Mick, or you’ll join her!”
“…Need a hand sorting, then?”
“About time. Christ, look at these embroidered roosters—beautiful, ain’t they?”
“Aye. But… did you nick my *good socks*?!”
