"This is one of the easiest possible dinners isn't it? It's SO EASY!" he said.
The CFO burst into barbed laughter.
"You've never met Uncle Ben's Microwave Rice, have you?" he asked.
I was similarly hysterical.
"Real fishes? With fresh things inside that needed chopping? Ha!".
Suffice to say our home is not the domestic idyll I painted seductively to the CFO when I went part time. The CFO and Prog Rock shared lots of anecdotes about my domestic ineptitude during the weekend. How they both laughed as they remembered me telling the cleaner in Paris the hoover "must be broken" when in fact I had just never used it and had no idea how to switch it on.
"But was it a new hoover?" asked Prog Rock delightedly.
"No! We had had it for three years!" replied the CFO laughing (but there is pain behind the laugher).
"Sally used to sweep little piles of dust in the centre of the floor" reminisces Prog Rock later "they used to drive me crazy. She was many things, but a housewife was not one of them"."I would settle for little piles of dust" says the CFO sadly "that would be a huge improvement".
But wait, usually I neglect my house and my responsibilitites for my blog. What on earth is happening if I start to neglect my blog too?
It would be nice to say that I am taking time to appreciate how precious the smaller things are (as suggested by womens magazines everywhere) . Imagine this scene in a slightly golden soft focus: I am blowing bubbles with tousleheaded laughing children, running in the shallow waves on the beach with a demented but elegant dog, reading an improving book in a deep lavender scented bubble bath, doing a soulful watercolour of a kitten, wearing a pretty smock and a dreamy, nurturing expression.
Or! We could suggest that I am deep in a particularly tricky section of the Great Belgian Novel I am writing. That things are going so well that I cannot bear to leave my precious manuscript for a second.
We could say that. It would be a lie, but we could say it.
We can also rule out: expansive DIY projects. Socialising. Important cultural events. Charity work. Study. Paid work. It is none of these.
No. The truth is, I am simply being EVEN MORE OF A MORON THAN USUAL. Sorry, sorry. You may line up to kick me now. Berate me in the comments box. Remind me of all the things I have said I will do and haven't. There are lots I know. I have scrabbly bits of paper with 'lick a painting' and 'waffles torment me' written on them.
In an attempt to get myself back on track, I have vowed to go to the Post Office next week. Those of you I remember I owe presents are: Potty Mummy, RedFox, Fat Controller, M, Katyboo. Others, make your claims in the comments. I probably owe half the readers of this blog a present, don't I? I will make it up to you, my lovelies. Tomorrow I take my camera to school for Pamela Anderson's floats. I will try and make contingency blogging plans for my week in London, even if it means going into the giant mother pod of ennui.
Tonight, however, all I have to offer is this frankly terrifying photo of Fingers and his fish. Am I the only one who thinks this is the first step on a slippery slope that will end with all three of them in camouflage fatigues reading 'Guns and Ammunition'?
The subtext in the CFO taking the children fishing is clear, to me at least. It's a warning. Unless I get it together he is taking them both off to live in a survivalist camp full of weaponry somewhere in the Ardennes. There will be no little piles of dust, and no dogs sitting on €400 coats. No moths. His eyes go a little dreamy when I suggest this. Should I be worried?