As always, the house was in shambles after the weekend and my boss accosted me with a list of the things that were wrong. I'd failed to adequately iron a shirt, I was keeping the fruit the girls left in their school lunchboxes, and so on. The man has a pathological fear (among multiple other mental defects) of germs and has an array of anti-bacterial cleaning products that would rape the immune systems of a small country. Luckily my sparkly lovebird state meant I just smiled and nodded as the two girls clung to my waist and called me mummy while Dad railed about the importance of Fabulon while ironing. I'd told the girls we'd go to the museum but a movie seemed more attractive as I could put on 3D glasses and nap (I have a remarkable ability to sleep during blockbusters) so I cajoled them with the promise of popcorn and choc-tops (oh the beauty of overweight children and their relationships with food).
The cinemas are about five minutes from the house so I took the long way. The way that takes forty five minutes with the radio up so I can't hear the children.
I took them to Smiggle and was almost violently ill from the smell of scented rubbers and the sight of harsh primary colours. Who the fuck thought scenting a rubber was a good idea? They were like frenzied kittens at a fish festival. Between them they bought ten inanely shaped erasers and I developed a blinding headache.
I then pretended to have to go to the toilet during the film and went to McDonalds for a Filet o Fish meal. When the girls smelt it on me and demanded their own I told them they were imagining things and made them eat sushi for lunch. When I accept my nanny of the year trophy I'm going to thank Jesus, television, fast food and whiskey. The latter of which I had a secret swig of during the ironing at four in the afternoon. Nothing like hair of the dog while the children eat Shapes in front of the telly. Clearly I'll be mother of the year one day, too.