Friday does mean early release from the gulag for the spawn, certainly. It's the one day a week I make like the proper parents and go and stand out in the wind tunnel in front of the brutalist yellow-rimmed box for twenty minutes making dismal small talk, while the teachers sit in their heated staff room rejoicing and drinking gin. In theory it is a nice idea, to see my lovely boys while they are still relatively fresh and cheerful, but in reality we are sick to death of each other after a week's promiscuity, sharing tissues and squabbling. Last night, as Fingers teased the dog for the ninety eighth time, and Lashes argued me into a corner over his undone homework, I snapped and told them I was going to bed because (violins) they were being HORRIBLE. Then I slammed the doors satisyingly and stormed upstairs like a fourteen year old. I went to bed. They didn't notice. I came back down and emptied the dishwasher. God only knows what we will do this afternoon. None of my offers of ice cream and pancakes or trips to the bookshop seem to entice them. They would rather moulder in the house fighting and placing Skinny McStupid in cardboard boxes.
Next week will be better, I am determined. There will be forays out of the house lasting up to several hours at a time! I am even going to speak at a conference in Amsterdam on Tuesday*. Yes, speak, rather than snark endlessly. I do not 'do' public speaking. I mumble, and make strange clicking noises and go blotchy. I compulsively tell the truth, when I am supposed to be speaking in furtherance of the greater glory of the corridor of ennui. It is going to be a complete train wreck, or so I thought until I saw my Norwegian co-presenter's paper, which appears to draw from Arthurian ("Kong Artur" it says in his Norwegian speaking notes) grail legends, table tennis and horse racing in a way that makes no apparent sense at all. Perhaps, on reflection, it will be ok.
I am making some resolutions for next week. I mean, a whole YEAR, that's crazy. A week is just about manageable. Keep me to them if you can, won't you? Next week I will:
1. Cook a meal for someone other than Oscar. Without oven chips. AND eat it.
2. Wear clothes out of the wardrobe, and not off the chair or out of the bath at least twice.
Exhibit #1: the chair
Exhibit #2: the bathroom
(These are like something off Lovely Listings. The clothes! They're staging a sit in! They have demands!)
3. Do NOT check blog compulsively whilst looking after children. They notice. And do whatever it takes to get my attention back. Like, biting the dog (truly).
That's it. Not too ambitious. Anything you'd like to achieve for next week?
*As a bonus update to this dismally boring post, can you offer me some outfit advice? Which would you go for for this spectacularly eurotedious event:
A. APC blazer and miniskirt with Sonia Jumper
I'd wear this with the Orniron boots featured here in my infamous bathtub pics.
B: The same blazer and skirt, but with the 3.1 Philip Lim top?
Probably also with the boots, or these:
C: Reiss super severe dress