Empty nest? NOT!

If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, charge it rent and make sure it does its fair share of washing up.

What happened? I was supposed to be wallowing in that warm and fuzzy, sunshiny spot between 'Empty Nest Syndrome' and 'My goodness, look at all this extra space!'.

Alas, this is not the case. I don't think I am EVER going to get there….

You see, this January saw the departure of my dear daughter 'Fear Factor'* to the Mother City (*yes she is STILL learning to drive, despite the efforts of the traffic department to have her declared 'Steeringly Challenged' … come to think of it, I reckon they may have made that up I can't find it in any of Mrs Ed's medical encyclopaedias).

I won't go into detail about the move, other than it involving an impressive convoy of trailers and bakkies packed so high that the lifting of power lines was necessary.... and our arrival at the quaint little flatlet instantly causing the collapse of one poor landlord. Poor, poor man.

But the deed is done and Fear Factor is now firmly ensconced in a small unsuspecting suburb called Parow. We await reports as to how quickly the drivers and pedestrians residing in that area manage to initiate a class action restraining order against her.

So. You would have thought that this move would mean a little extra room in the T'ED household, wouldn't you? Any logically thinking person with more common sense than a taxidermist's squirrel can do the maths:-
Family of four, minus one child (2012) = Family of three.
Family of three, minus one child (2015) = Family of two = Just me and Mrs Ed = a lot of empty rooms and cupboards and spare towels.

And I have to shamefully admit, it wasn't four minutes after the last tearful promise to keep Fear Factor's room exactly as she left it (which, if you think about it would be like leaving London exactly as it was just after the Blitz) that I started mentally planning the installation of the two-storey micro brewery - which would undoubtedly save us a huge amount of money over the years, and, once we had sold it to SAB, would probably make me infinitely wealthy.

But that was just my idea, and I knew it wouldn't be plain sailing. Mrs Ed had her heart set on the ridiculous notion of opening a B&B.
“Think of the people we'll meet,” she had mused, “It will be such a nice way of making new friends from all over the world.”

Now call me anything you like, but I'm no idiot. The thought of anyone paying good money to stay amidst the chaos of our home, actually socialize with (and look at) the 7am version of Mrs Ed (when her temper AND teeth are at their sharpest), then sit at a breakfast table and eat food prepared by her calloused, oil-stained hands…. Well it just went against any smidgeon of logic I had.

But I needn't have worried.

Because then the unexpected happened....
'The REE' came back.

You might call it The REE-TURN.

Just in case you have forgotten, The REE (Resident Expert on Everything) is our son, who we packed off to study in Cape Town in 2012. At the time I had thought, perhaps foolishly, that that was it. Once qualified the lad would land a high-paying job, move into a large apartment in Constantia, and invite Mrs Ed and me down to spoil us for weeks at a time.

I had even rehearsed my acceptance speech for the brand new 750cc Honda Africa Twin he would no doubt be buying me 'Just as a thank you for everything you and mom have done'….

Apparently not. He's home.

It was quite unnerving actually. Firstly Mrs Ed insisted I change all the family photos back (I had pasted cut out pictures of a better looking young man - WITHOUT tattoos, stretcher earrings and a pierced tongue - over The REE’s photographs. Nothing sinister about this action of course, it just made conversations with visitors that much more relaxed). And then, because I hadn't had to use the combination lock on the fridge for so long, I only realized I had forgotten the code once I'd locked it.

I got myself into a huge panic and was about to see if I could break through the back of the fridge with a four pound hammer and chisel, when The REE came home, opened the padlock and started tucking into everything he could lay his hands on. Apparently the young whippersnapper had cracked the combination years ago! No wonder my amber nectar had started tasting a little watery.

“Is it legal? Can they actually do that? You know… just move back in?” I asked my father in law later, as I took the last Windhoek from his fridge. We had just popped round to borrow some of his power tools and return the ones I'd broken, and Mrs Ed was busy packing some of the meat from their deepfreeze into her basket (they always had SO much!) whilst her mom was hanging up the last few loads of our washing (she does get the whites that much whiter).
“I mean, surely,” I mused, popping a nice wedge of Gorgonzola into my mouth, and chewing it thoughtfully, (my in-laws did have a great taste in cheese) “Surely there should be some sort of law protecting parents from that sort of thing? Otherwise it could carry on forever?”

The wise old man just stared at me. It was such a strange, deep stare, if I hadn't known better I would have sworn he had actually WANTED the half lasagna I had found on the second shelf half an hour earlier. Admittedly it had tasted very, VERY good - even cold.

He grabbed my arm, quite tightly for a man of his years, actually. “The best thing you can do,” he whispered hoarsely (he's always been a hoarsey person),
“The best thing you can do ….” Now he was pulling me in closer, digging his fingers so deep into my flesh I almost dropped the bowl of fruit-salad
“…is EMIGRATE!”

Putting his lips to my ears he continued, and if the truth be told I thought I detected a hint of desperation in his voice…..
“...somewhere far, far away, like Australia… or Peru…. and…. ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?” he glanced over to where Mrs Ed's mother was busy ironing one of my shirts, then turned back to me, and positively hissed.
“Make sure you do EVERYTHING YOU CAN to stop your wife telling them where you are! YOU UNDERSTAND? This is most important. You have to convince her that it's A SECRET!”

I mulled over this as I dolloped four generous scoops of icecream into my bowl...
“You know what dad? I think you’re right,” I mused, finishing the last bit of chocolate sauce, “In fact I might even go so far as to say..
I’d be mad if I didn’t!”