Expectations have a habit of falling short

I've had a busy week of it, what with Winery Folk Festivals to play at, birthdays to celebrate and bathrooms to visit, so I was looking forward to a nice quiet week. I could potter round in the garden, feed the chickens, and generally pretend to be a man of property and leisure, but as is often the case, my week had been planned for me by an unseen hand. Our son was enrolled in a British Soccer Camp here on the island by his Mom last week. Not only that, but we agreed apparently, to host one of the coaches, so on Sunday, I drove to the rendezvous site to meet him and welcome him into our care for the duration. I had visions of enjoying a beer or two sitting on the deck, and reveling in the type of British banter absent from these shores. Maybe a new joke or two, or a story of political mayhem from the coalition. So it was with high spirits and expectations, I made an Indian meal of Tandoori Chicken, Chick Peas and Spinach, Chili spiced Dall and Pulao Rice with Almonds. He was very quiet, so we asked him about his life and his family to break the ice, but no matter how we tried, no matter which angle we approached from, he remained a closed book. Ah well, maybe he's just tired and a bit shy, I told myself. maybe tomorrow.
He did mention, in one moment of rare warmth, that he missed his Sunday Dinner. Ah ha, I thought, an opportunity to crack the ice block that permanently engulfed him, and an opportunity to stray from the diet somewhat (a lot), so I promised him a Sunday Roast, and Yorkshire puddings, with all of the trimmings. I got home from work and started to prepare the feast, when he suddenly made an appearance and opened his mouth without being prompted. A few words of gratitude, I thought, or maybe just an enquiry as to when he would be fed, at the least, but it was not to be. He informed me he would be going out to a coaches meeting and didn't have time to eat. Did I mind? Could I maybe just leave him a plate so he could eat it on his return? Yes I do mind, you uncommunicative f***ing ingrate, I would have liked to have said, but instead, I told him it would be there for him on his return. My wife failed to return from her tennis match also, so I ate my Roast Beef on my lonesome and enjoyed every life shortening mouthful.
This must surely be my week for repose.