Moira’s mother-in-law had been staying for the entire week. The un-ironable drip-dry shirts had all been ironed: a lawyer should never be seen dead in an un-ironed shirt. The kitchen pantry had been rearranged: spices should be in alphabetical order. The online grocery shopping was cancelled: how could you pay for an organically-grown banana if you haven’t laid eyes upon it?
Moira was driven up the wall. Husband Jack had only the once come to Moira’s defence. It made the Hunga Tonga Hunga Ha-apai volcano look like a little campfire.
But tomorrow! Tomorrow Winifereti was set to go home! Winifereti had outstayed her welcome. Imagine Moira’s dismay the next morning upon opening the drapes. A giant sinkhole had appeared in the driveway. It was deep and growing. Moira, Jack, and Winifereti went out to investigate.
“I shan’t be able to get the car out the gate,” declared Winifereti. “I shall have to stay another week.”
“With a bit of a push coming to shove,” said Moira, “I think we could make that stay permanent.”