It is 7pm on a damp Friday night. DD, 15 in a week, marches into the kitchen and announces ‘ I’m not vegetarian anymore and I’ve had my ear pierced again ‘. “ That’s nice ‘, I say somewhat weakly. ‘ So can I have chicken korma if we get curry tonight, can we get curry tonight, me and A are really hungry. Can we get it now? ‘. My DD is ruthless in her pursuit of any goal, and I mentally weigh up the cost of a takeaway for us all, as I am sure my DS and accompanying friend will also be on the verge of starvation having not eaten anything for at least an hour, against the cost to my sanity of trying to persuade them of the merits of some reheated lasagne. ‘ Curry it is ‘. ‘ Can you order it now? Me and A are going to M’s, and I need some money, I owe S a fiver and she’s going to be there. I’ll take it from your wallet ‘. She flounces out of the kitchen and my DS takes her place. He places his takeaway order and preferred time of delivery, ie. right now, and tries to persuade me that he needs ten quid for bus fare. ‘ Beer flavoured bus fare? ‘ I enquire. ‘ You’re not funny mama’, and he blows on my glasses, which he knows I hate as I look ridiculous when they’re steamed up. ‘ And you’re taking to rugby tomorrow, we’ve got to be at school for eight. Have you washed my kit? ‘ I have as it turns out, it is on the 12 foot high pile of clean laundry-waiting-to-be-put-away that is currently residing in the spare bedroom.
Like all working mums I have two full time jobs. My other one is Stuck on homework which reminds me, I must remember to do my top lip before the Daily Mirror press photo on Monday.