It’s Tuesday morning after the bank holiday, and I’m sat at home, watching the minutes tick by. Apparently a parcel is “on the road” en-route to me via the Home Delivery Network. A voice on my shoulder is expecting them not to arrive - in the same way that they didn’t arrive on Friday (in spite of reporting they delivered the goods that never arrived).
So. Sat here. Waiting. I’ve emailed the office already and told them I’ll be late. I have a coffee, my bag is packed, and my bike is standing on the decking, ready to go. Of course my colleagues probably expect me to blow the day off - because they know what the parcel will contain (an XBox 360).I could never do that - guilt would eat away at me, and I would end up confessing hilariously.
Quite how I’m going to findanytime to try the games machine out is another matter entirely. Even without doing freelance projects for people, my morning begins at 7 with the sprint to get breakfasts and lunches made, the cats and chickens fed, the children out of the house,and the overnight washing up put away. If parents I used to see at the school gate ever wonder where I am these days, they can probably hear me grumbling as I cycle up the road towards work before my day has even begun.
Evenings are a bit better, but not much. I typically walk in at 6pm to the handiwork that a working mum and three children can cause in the hour or two between their arrival and mine. The house I left looking fairly presentable will typically look like a minor hurricane passed through it. A foot of postal mail will have arrived, numerous pieces of paper from various schools, all manner of games kit will be heaped on the floor in the kitchen, and discarded lunchboxes will either be hiding in air-dropped schoolbags, or festering on the kitchen top.
Of course then you have dinner, and washing up to deal with. Some days it takes no time at all - but sometimes it comes straight out of the “worst case scenario handbook”. W is vegetarian, and our eldest is Coeliac. Suddenly spaghetti bolognese requires double the number of saucepans, and our spacious kitchen looks like Apocalypse Now has been filmed in it.
The evening is rarely my own before 9pm these days; while I deal with the wreckage, W typically does the bedtime routine with the younger children - mercifully, our eldest puts herself to bed these days.
Let’s imagine I do a couple of hours of work on a freelance project, if I have one - that takes me up to 11pm, after which I appear in the lounge with a coffee and sit to either watch junk TV, or noodle around with the iPad or netbook for an hour or two. Recently the US TV series “Community” has been our late night escape - watching the exploits of a ragtag group of older students at an American community college. I’ll admit to not enjoying a series so much in years.
Anyway… where’s this parcel?