After the trials and tribulations of travelling with work, today marked a return to “normal”. My normal. The one where I fall out of bed before I really want to be doing so, and wage a running battle with little people until the moment I hand them off to the mystery that is school teachers before turning the pedals of my trusty stead towards the well of all souls (read: the office).
The day seemed to fill itself with other people’s work, and the mundane chores of administraton. The invention of time and expense records. While filling out the various electronic paperwork, I debated with colleagues on the legality of claiming for the bottle of red wine, or the packet of M&Ms...; or the secondpacket of M&Ms.; In the same way my paranoia extends to supermarket checkout staff judging my purchases, I wondered if accounts clerks at far flung clients also do the same. I wondered if they would realise the line “Bella” on the receipt translates to the cheapest red wine in the late night supermarket?
Returning home late last night triggered a rugby tackle in the hallway from Little Miss Six, who then ran from room to room announcing my arrival in that special excitable manner that small children seem so skilled at. Nobody else seemed impressed with my re-appearance on the domestic stage. Older sisters were nose deep in homework at the dining room table, and Mum was cooking in her own chaotic way that leaves me with mountains of washing up.
Half an hour after dinner I looked at my reflection in the kitchen window - elbow deep in dishwater, saucepans in all directions, and the fridge in the background covered in the latest school projects. It was good to be home.