M sent me email this morning saying that he doesn't want to come home yet. I think he probably will, though, as he was supposed to be back at work on Monday. The new plan is that they'll be home by Monday night but I guess we'll see. Joseph, mentioned previously here in dispatches, came to see me yesterday and told me that he thinks he's got a job on the ferries, so he might not be able to work for me while I go camping with the kids in August. The curse of my holidays returns.

In 1993, when Kirsten was 2 and I was pregnant with Ian, we took a week off and went to stay at Alberta Beach at M's parents' cabin. We'd been there about twenty minutes when the kids at the gas station we ran at the time phoned us and said there was an irate customer who was planning to sue us, for M overfilling this guy's daughter's oil in her car. That pretty much meant the week was spent on the phone with lawyers... and it rained non-stop.

Didn't take another holiday for a long time. In 1999, when I'd been running the coffee shop for two years, I tried to take a week off, and stay home, and M went down to the shop and had a big fight with one of my staff, and it was hell for the whole week, with people crying on the phone. The next year, although you'd have thought I'd have learnt, I tried to take a week off, had it all arranged, made M promise to stay away from the store, and the guy who was supposed to be working for me fell down the stairs while drunk, and I ended up working anyway.

Patterns? Oh, probably. The universe just wants me to keep working, I guess.