It doesn’t really feel like the weekend has arrivedmore like I’ve managed to make it to the weekendon my knees, half stumbling, half falling across the line.
I’m trying really quite hard to do nothing tonighton purpose. I forsee the delivery of take-away food at some point, and perhaps the rental of a bad movie; the kind where you can take your brain out and just “be” while it plays in front of your face.
That’s the dream (hardly a lofty aspiration, I’m sure you’ll agree).
In reality, my other half will come back from the school disco with two small children fuelled up on fizzy drinks and chocolate, and they will begin to crash at bedtime spectacularly. Invented ailments will suddenly strike them down, and cause tears, arguments, fighting, and the beginnings of a mini apocalypse.
We will end up eating whatever crap needs to be eaten from the cupboards before it goes mouldy, and wish we had a glass of something nice to drink. This whole unfolding disaster is called “parenting”.