Yes, he’s touting for work and I know that’s a slog. But he still gets to do it with his sunglasses on, green juice in hand, mincing about like a twat. The only thing in my hand is a bag of poo when I take the dog out.
Years ago, when we were young and used to stay out drinking all night, Misha’s boss would occasionally come over for a big night out while he was in London and his wife was at home with the kids in Devon. I hadn’t met the wife, but pictured her as some sort of sad-sack drudge, who spent her time grilling fish fingers and washing nappies while her husband necked tequilas and fell asleep in taxis. ‘You’d never catch me putting up with that,’ I’d think. ‘Imagine letting your husband have all the fun while you’re stuck at home. She must be a right walkover.’
To be fair, being just 12 days, this trip hasn’t been quite so gruelling as some of the others, though by Saturday I was crying on the phone to the Paybyphone people. It always ends in tears to a call-centre operative. Which is a shame as it usually starts so well, with me feeling like Supermum as I leave the house on time with child, toddler and dog in tow. ‘I don’t know what I was so nervous about,’ I think, ‘I can do this on my own – I should totally get a divorce.’
But after five days of 1am wake-ups, battles over meals and 5am demands to watch Power Rangers, I am crushed, with unwashed hair and mysterious stains on the grey jumpers I’ve been wearing for way longer than I should have. ‘You look tired,’ people say, exactly the wrong thing to say to a tired person whose sense of humour has gone the same way as their looks.
I shouldn’t complain – I don’t have it as bad as many. My mum came to help at the weekend, which meant I got to go and drink wine and complain. Occasionally my dad comes to help too, if you call cracking open a beer and saying, ‘God, I don’t know how you do this 24/7’ help.
Anyway, with four nights to go, I’m on the home straight. What’s the betting I don’t even get a present?
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