By the third day of no husband on duty in a homeschooling household (admittedly, this week, mostly via i pad maths and spelling and word puzzles) I’d risen up like a mad Medusa with a crazy 20cm mid section scar in the shape of an erratic question mark. The Internet didn’t work. My computer kept crashing. I was locked out of my online bank account. Stuff that made me mighty iffy but that my husband could fix in a jiffy. I was so over my husband being away. I’d gone from being smug and coping and was in full-fledged banshee mode. When trying to post a blog, the text went haywire on my blog and I couldn’t fix it. Normally I’d wail for my son but he, along with my capable 9 year old was at my studio being chastised for working there without me. They didn’t return until nightfall when I guess they presumed I’d crawlin' back to my lair. It took me 3 hours on and off (with light relief from The Housewives of Beverley Hills with commentary from me about how they all looked as if they had been punched in the mouths by the same plastic surgeon) to fix the text. I went from screen to screen like a rabid dog with a text bone. Insane I know, but writing the blog and posting it daily is how I hang on to shred of sanity. Without my daily disciplines, I’d turn into a full-blown creature of the night. Or I’d watch more housewives shit which is oddly compelling, and I’m sick of the Pioneer Woman and her flat prairies, saccharine life though admittedly some of her recipes send me scurrying to the wood pile to toast crackers or some such crud. I’m going to draft my own tele trash: Hysterical Housewives Stitched Up. Or: Cry In Your Ear Woman. My son returned home and transcribed the blasted thing with his nifty guitar playing, brilliant at drawing but crap at housework digits. Later I retired to bed with a goblet of Penderyn.
By the fourth day, I couldn’t see the kitchen on account of my hungry son and baking frenzied daughter. Before coffee I was scraping baked on crap off the kitchen table with whatever that scrapey thing for the walls I was climbing only I couldn’t on account of my by now, hysterical hysterectomy scar with it’s attendant hidden wounds lurking below my surfaces. I’ve had so much (frankly, all) my female equipment hacked out its little wonder I’m hacked off. Weary, unable to bend and popping pain killers, I resorted to paying the kids to fetch things that I couldn’t find: First person to find my book gets 50p…and pick them up from the floor. My 6 year old kept rushing to find my cripple stick. I’ve had to explain we can’t call it that outside the house. My 5 year old who is a maths whizz (did he really spring from my former womb – and what did they do with that flesh vessel anyway? Did they just chuck it into an incinerator? Or sew it into someone else? Oh God I could weep for the thing, but I mustn’t get emotional. I don’t have an excuse anymore) eagerly totted up his tally and his siblings’ whilst calculating future earnings and buying imaginary things with them before advising me as to what would be left. I also came over all barking sergeant, Pick that up please! Pick it up now please! No over there, a foot to the left, 3 inches to the right. Yes! That’s it! Thank you, thank you! Five minutes later: “Fifty pence to the first kid who finds my gold Pharma bag! – the zip up gold computer bag sized thing I keep my stash of painkillers and other injectable (only Clexane) drugs in – not the recreational kind folks, but I could sell some of them under the bridge at West Shore I’m sure.
By the 4th day I was counting the hours and hissing never again, never again, like The Little Red Engine or the green one named Emily from Thomas The Cranky Engine. I’d inadvertently spilt a coffee mug full of coffee over the bedclothes and my phone whilst lunging haphazardly for my charger. I’ve decided that it is verboten for Si to be gone for more than 3 days until I’m up and running like a refurbed Karmann Ghia, that I’d secretly like given I’m nearing an age so classic I could laugh hysterically at given I just can’t believe it. On the 5th day I was counting the hours like candy and clearly submersing myself in the buzz that gave me. He arrived back after a 5 hour whizz down the motorway and soon after big son and I had watched The Party with Peter Sellers. Big son and I have added Cohen Brothers, Woody Allen, Peter Cook and Dudley Moore and Peter Sellers to my general prescription. Si brought The Evening Standard + magazine for me along with an extra dose of sanity. On the 6th day I awoke from weird dreams to kisses strong coffee, sourdough toast with honey and ecstatic children who were soon whisked off to theatre school and swimming classes by SuperSi, leaving me here to do this and a spot of academic editing – for which I needed some formatting help. I’m still rubbish at anything technical, but I know a man who is. Life is now, technically, perfect.