In anticipation of meeting Daughter #1’s new beau momentarily, I have cleaned Casa Carmichael (visible bits) within an inch of its over long life, attempted to jet wash my deck chairs (big fail, Mrs C is not cut out for physical labour), filled an over sized shopping trolly full to brim with nice, tempting nibbles and will very soon be indulging in a pre-prandial to relax and to ensure the bon viveurness said daughter will require from mother of the potential bride.
But roll it back a notch. I have just been informed by my first born that we are to pretend no knowledge of the young man’s cv.
We are not to talk about his semi pro rugby prowess (that will be hard for Mr Carmichael) nor the fact that he has been in her wings since last October (sshhh).
The fact that he went to Oxford (tick, vg) and works at the same company as the daughter until last week (she left not him) are verboten topics of conversation also.
It should be ok to say “Gosh, you’re tall,” as that will be immediately obvious but it must come as a total surprise. I can do surprise but better make my sundowner on the weakish side so as not to overdo the pleased shock.
I guess I better not follow that with “And very handsome.” That might be unnecessarily forward of me. But I can tell you, he is. I’ve seen a pic on her iPhone. Tall, dark and handsome. What more could a mother want?
Mr C was only told his first name yesterday. I’ve know both first and last for simply ages (yes, go me) but we’re not to indicate too much familiarity with it/them apparently.
“But, Darling,” I say coyly. “If it’s a shared boudoir you’re after, surely we should have some foreknowledge of M…… Otherwise he might think you bring complete strangers back to your parent’s place on a regular and frequent basis.” Ha!
I don’t know how it’s going to go but one thing I do know is that Daughter #1 will let us know everything we are doing wrong for the duration of the evening . Of that I can be sure.
Perfume spritzed, lippy on. It must be gin time.
Wish me luck.