There is, I suspect, a pinch point in everyone’s day when they wish they were someone else or somewhere else. Or both. It normally occurs about the same time every day, whether it is a hellish commute, a frantic deadline rush, or children’s dinner time. Oh dinner time. At some point between 4.45pm and 5.05pm, when the food for the children is practically ready, every single day, they will both be shouting, shrieking, grizzling at the table, and I long for the days that putting one’s head in the oven was a solution to such woe.
Dulcie will be in tears because:
- She was enjoying a game which I have, with unspeakable rudeness, interrupted
- She has not approved the menu for the day, as though she were a tiny Rebecca and I her giant Mrs Danvers
- I am taking too long to serve the food i.e. more than a hundreth of second has elapsed between her bottom connecting with the chair and the food being put in front of her
Himself the Elf will be bellowing and lowing because:
- I have strapped him in a chair and prevented him licking the television or trying to plunge head first down a step onto a stone floor
- He is hungry. Or not hungry. Or tired. Or not tired.
- Dulcie is doing it, so why shouldn’t he?
I long to be the sort of woman Continue reading