There should be a law against the arrival of unexpected guests. Just the mention of popping around for a minute or two can have the sanest family descended into uncharacteristic lunacy.

Such was the case with my own family.

“They're coming at two, aren't they?” Says brother mine.

“Noon.” Said I.

“I haven't got anything in!” Mother wailed.

“Well, can't we just have sandwiches?” Interjected Dad.

“Can a fish walk on land?” Mother snapped, “And the dog’s not been bathed!” The dog hid.

“What are you going to cook?” Said brother mine.

“I don't know – bread and dolly mixtures!” Mother sighed.

“You can't, Dave's diabetic and she’s got a gluten allergy.” Interjected Dad.

“Then they can eat the tablecloths!” Mother muttered. “Go and bathe the dog.”

Brother mine and I are reacquainting ourselves with the peculiar weave of the lounge carpet - raking heavy Hoovers over its already pristine surface. Pillows plumped, curtains rearranged, fingernail inspection next. Not a word was spoken but we each knew what the other thinks, don’t make me laugh.

There was a flash of slightly too-long dog fur and the clamour of claws, quickly followed by heavy footfalls and a string of curses. Dad appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame for support and catching his breath. “That damned dog!” He pants. “That damn, stupid, stinking dog!”

Mother calls, “Where did you put the tin opener?”

“In the drawer!” Dad responds. “Why do you need it?”

“Why do I need it?” Mother’s tone changed, a sure fine signal that things are about to escalate.

“To curl my eyelashes with!”

The doorbell rings, our yappy wet dog producing a cacophony of half strangled barks. Mother wails. Dad yowls. Brother mine and I? It was a hidden pact reserved for moments of extreme duress. Don’t make me laugh.

“They're here!” I said, “They're early too!”

“I've got to get changed,” Mum said urgently. “But the dishes need sorting.”

“I'll sort it,” We held up our hands. “Just go.”

Moments later the guests were welcomed and Mum had returned. “Where did it all go?” She

said darkly. We pointed to the washing machine.

“Are you mad!? Why did you do that?” She rushed to the washing machine. Sure enough a pile, actually rather neatly stacked, of pots, plates and cutlery were bundled in the machine with a towel thrown in for good measure.

“The washing machine's got tinted windows, nobody would be any the wiser,” brother mine said, logically. And we didn’t laugh.