Begging for marrows....

Next Friday, the office bunch are off volunteering for a local school. They're tidying up an area which is going to become a 'woodland classroom'. When news of this volunteering escapade was first mooted in July, I have to say I felt an overwhelming sense of impending domestic... I found myself shuffling further to the back of the meeting room and trying to avoid eye contact... I just kept repeating 'no, no, no, no' in my head... to no avail... it caught up with me... "Your husband's a gardener isn't he?" said one of my colleagues in a vaguely accusatory, yet hopeful tone of voice. I really wanted to retort, "And your wife stays at home, doesn't she.... do you think she'd give you a big snog and say 'wonderful, darling' if you went home and told her you'd volunteered her services to clean up my house for charity?????!!!!" I just couldn't bring myself to say it, leaving him with a "hmmm, yes". I knew I couldn't go home and ask the man I love, my life partner, laundry-doer, dinner-maker, rabbit co-parent, house-tidier, etc., etc., etc., to put a good client out of sorts in order to come out and muck around with a load of people that I work with. Don't get me wrong, Fereday is not mean, but because we work for a big company, the volunteers from the office can be reasonably guaranteed that their day out won't lead to them losing their jobs. Fereday doesn't work for a big company - on Fridays he works for a private couple who want their garden done.Anyway, feeling the normal abundance of Catholic guilt later on, I volunteered myself to make cakes for the workers - this secures me a peaceful Friday in the office with the ambience enhancing chatter of Radio 4 for company. Don't think this gets me out of a domestic - it's just the lesser of two evils. Fereday is almost - but not quite - as protective of the kitchen and his pots and pans as he is of his gardening tools. While it's not like I'm planning to make a mess, experience tells me (and Fereday) that there will be:- batter splodges on the floor and baked onto the oven;- flour liberally coating the worksurfaces;- the remains of a suicidal egg on the floor;- melted butter and chocolate on the cooker top;- every pot and pan used;- at least one burn (mine - ovens are hot) and one minor laceration (also mine - knives are sharp); and- the emergence of at least one 'Frankenstein' cake or pastry (i.e., something so ugly, it would scare the neighbour's dog).The bodily injuries are usually fairly helpful in soothing out any potential fracas - Fereday always leans more towards the sympathetic than the purple-faced 'Oh my god, the kitchen!' side of things. Bless him!When we both finally flop into bed on Thursday night (or possibly Friday morning), we'll have done our fair share... and I'll have the injuries to prove it. Unfortunately, I'll need to wait until Monday to show these off to my colleagues - unless I've done a real doozy and there's a finger in the tin of brownies!Anyway... I'm now having to harrass friends, neighbours and colleagues for overgrown courgettes so I can make my Mom's gorgeous zucchini bread... it's a bit awkward, walking up to people and asking if they could help you out with a large marrow! Secretly, I'm getting a bit worried that I've mentioned this search to far too many people.... I think I'm going to end up with a metric ton of the b*ggers!

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