The Punishment for going on holidays is....

There is a very real punishment for being on holidays. It is called coming home. Especially after you have left your nearly 19 year old son in charge. I use that term "in charge" very loosely.

So we left Bali at 2:30am. Yes AM. Our praying to the volcano God  of eruptions didn't work, our flight wasn't cancelled and we were on that plane. Well on that plane after all the passengers had been sent to the wrong gate. Which was downstairs where there is no loud speaker to transmit the announcement that the gate had moved. Is it just me or do you think maybe when no one was at the CORRECT gate 20 minutes before the flight was due to depart someone might think there may be a problem??

The plane landed at 6:30am and of course I had not slept a wink because it is hard to sleep when your legs are up on your chest. Just a hint Jeststar- you are not going to get another row in there. Just saying. There is nothing fun to do on a Jetstar flight. There is not even the rattle of the food trolley or the promise of a cheeky little fun size bottle of awful SSB to drink to ease the pain.

So anyway we arrived home, too tired to even buy my 2 litres of booze (told you I was tired) got through customs, watched the Chinese people who arrived on a flight from China get their bags searched and their food confiscated. It was like watching an episode of Border Security.

Grabbed a cab, got driven home by a crazy taxi driver who who obviously got his license in Bali, and finally at 7am walked through the door. To what should have been my beautiful clean house. Except my cleaning lady had cancelled and the above mentioned "in charge son "had not cleaned the house. The whole time we had been away.

I should have known I was in trouble when I saw a Corona Beer Ice Bucket on the verandah table. Then when I walked in and saw a great big cardboard box that contained a Carlsberg Soccer Table that was decorated with two Corona Beanies. 

One with a pom pom. One without a pom pom. That pom pom was in pieces throughout the house because the dog decided to eat it. The same dog who had also decided to " poop" and "wee" through out the house because she was angry that she had been left at home.

I had also discovered that the "in charge son" had also decided to be Goldilocks in sleep in every friggin bed in the house. And not make those beds. Well you can just imagine my mood can't you.

I threw down my bags, swore, vacuumed, growled at the dogs and the cats, mopped, made the beds, send abusive messages to the "in charge -but I thought the cleaning lady was coming-son' all the time cursing the fact that my shakra which I had so beautiful balanced on my last day in Bali was becoming more and more unbalanced with every stroke of the mop.

Finally at 9am I was out of swear words and a little bit hungry because the last thing I had eaten was lasagne in Bali 12 hours earlier. I went to the pantry and my heart swelled because 'in charge son" had bought a loaf of bread for us. I felt bad for those messages. Like really bad. What can you expect from an 18 year old after all? Until I inspected the loaf of bread. It was mouldy. It was the loaf I bought 11 days ago. When I left.