Relatives from the Countryside Came to Stay for a Week—Five of Them in Our One-Bedroom Flat. I Greeted Them Covered in Green Spots—Looking Like I Had Chickenpox

Relatives from the countryside arrived to spend a week all five of them in our cramped one-bed flat. I greeted them covered in green dots pretending to have the chickenpox.

My Saturday morning started, not with coffee, but a shrill phone call. The display flashed ominously: Aunt Dorothy.

Ellie, darling, be ready! Aunt Dorothys voice was so perky and loud my alarm clock wouldnt have stood a chance. Were already on our way, love! Tomorrow morning well be at yours! Decided to surprise you want to see London, and visit you two! Were family, after all!

I sat up in bed, struggling to take it all in. The most terrifying word in that whole speech was we.

Who exactly is we, Aunt Dot? I asked cautiously, whilst simultaneously jabbing my husband Ben under the duvet so hed wake up.

Who else? Me, Uncle George, Lucy with her husband and our grandson, Jamie. Dont you worry, pet, were not fussy just need a place to sleep, well be out sightseeing all day!

Five extra people. Added to me and Ben. In our tiny flat barely enough space for a welcome mat and a narrow path between the sofa and the telly.

I hung up in silence and glanced at Ben. His expression was naked panic, mixed with a desperate wish to escape the country or at least pop out for a loaf of bread for the next full week.

A Simple Life? More Like Grand Theft Peace
Memories of their last visit drifted up instantly. That time, there were only three of them, but the traumatic week still haunted my dreams. Uncle George had chain-smoked on the tiny balcony, dropping ashes into my potted plants with a cheery, Bit of fertiliser, love! Aunt Dorothy had tried to teach me to make shepherds pie, practically breathing down my neck in our broom cupboard of a kitchen: Oh, let me show you how its really done. Ben and I had spent the nights on an air mattress which deflated steadily by dawn, leaving us practically sleeping on the floor while the guests lorded it over our sofa.

And now there were five. Lucy and her husband were loud and brash, and little Jamie a seven-year-old tornado with no off switch whose concept of no was more of a dare.

Weve got to say no, Ben muttered, staring at the ceiling.

How? I sighed. Theyre already on the train. Shall we say turn back? You know what Aunt Dorothys like shell go on about family ties, how she used to change my nappies, and how spoilt weve become in the Big Smoke. Then the whole village will gossip that I slammed the door in my familys faces, and my mumll be mortified.

When Diplomacy Fails
We sat in the kitchen, nursing coffee cups and tossing out hopeless ideas. Book them a hotel? Out of the question after the car repairs, our savings barely stretched to groceries, let alone London rates. Let them stay and move in with friends? Retreat and whod put us up for a week? Dont answer the door? Theyd be hammering until they called the fire brigade.

And then it hit me. What if we gave them a reason so convincing theyd run for the hills?

Chickenpox, I whispered.

What? Ben blinked.

Chickenpox! Quarantine! For adults its a nightmare: fever, scars, weeks of misery!

Ben hesitated. What if theyve had it already?

Aunt Dorothy and Uncle George definitely havent Mum told me. Not sure about Lucy, but theyd never risk it, not with Jamie in tow.

The Masterplan
With just four hours until their train pulled in, we swung into action. I dug out an old bottle of antiseptic dye from the first aid kit.

Go all out, I commanded, presenting my face. Forehead, cheeks, neck, arms the more ghastly, the better.

Ben, holding back laughter, dotted me liberally in lurid green spots. In the mirror, I looked like some sort of deranged childrens art project. To complete the look, I put on the shabbiest dressing gown I owned, wound a scarf round my neck and mussed up my hair.

What about me? Ben asked.

Youre the next target already exposed. A walking time-bomb. Even scarier.

We practised our story: Id fallen ill yesterday, raging temperature, doctor had visited, ordered strict quarantine, warned of a mutant strain.

A Knock at Deaths Door
Right on the dot, the doorbell rang. On the landing: shifting suitcases, loud chatter, and Jamie whining in the semi-darkness. I did my best dying-swan impression while Ben cracked the door and blocked the entrance.

Ben, mate! Not even going to meet us at the gate? Uncle George was already trying to squeeze past.

Stop! Ben barked. You cant come in. Weve got a disaster.

I shuffled into view, clutching the doorframe and wheezing, Hello in the hoarse whisper of a woman at deaths door. Sorry. Ive got chickenpox. Bad case. Doctor said its catching even through the vents.

A stunned silence filled the hall. Five pairs of eyes took in my green polka-dots.

Chickenpox?! Lucy stepped back swiftly, shielding Jamie. At thirty?

Weak immune system I moaned. Fever complications

I could actually see Aunt Dorothys mind warring between the lure of free accommodation and sheer mortal terror.

George, did you ever have chickenpox as a kid?

Dunno reckon not Uncle George was already shifting towards the lift.

Neither did I! Lucy squawked. Mum, lets find a hotel right now!

And Ben? Aunt Dorothy narrowed her eyes.

Im next up, Ben intoned grimly. Sharing a bed. Its just a question of when.

It was over. The prospect of spending a week crammed into our flat with germ-riddled hosts sobered them up immediately.

Get better, then, Uncle George grunted, slapping the lift button. Well take our bags and food might be useful in the hotel.

The lift doors closed on their mountain of luggage and, just like that, the problem rolled away.

Back to Life
We locked the door, and Ben collapsed against the wall, breathless with laughter. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and joined in, both of us cackling with relief.

Turned out, they found a hotel straight away. And the money, as we suspected, had always been there why spend it, after all, when you could freeload off the London cousins?

A few days later, Mum rang. Ellie, darling, why didnt you say something? Dorothy rang, said youre all green and at deaths door!

Im much better now, Mum, I replied breezily. Modern medicine incredible, really.

I never did confess the truth. Better they think Im frail than think Im hard-hearted.

The dye washed off. Ben and I spent the weekend in peace, ordering takeaway and savouring every blessed square inch of our tiny, but once again blissfully empty, little home.