My weekend is collapsing. My parents are hurtling towards me by caravan as we speak.
After weeks of planning and cajoling, and offers to book them rooms in a nearby hotel, all of a sudden, I discover they are inexorably wending their way over, swimming slowly up England's motoways like a blood clot through a fatty artery.
It all started when I mentioned that I'd, at some point, need a new sink for the flat. All of a sudden, they have one. It's in Somerset, and they're reluctant to ship it. For that would cost money.
Whereas, obviously, driving it hundreds of miles in third gear in a caravan isn't a hassle.
So, they're coming to stay, and to find dust and gentle fault with everything.
My flatmate has fled already. Tonight, in a vodka haze, I'll be staggering around the flat clearing away all trace of gay fridge magnets and rude games of hangman, and frantically, terribly tidying away everything that could possibly be described as dirt, in any context of the word.