Firstly, sensing my presence with uncanny insight, ‘That Cooking Fat’ jumps onto the windowsill from outside to let me know she wants to come in.
I turn away. So she walks all the way round to my side window and sits facing me.
I’m actually determined she won’t win.
A few seconds later she’s in and perched on top of my writing pad, purring and rubbing her chin all over my face, just in case I didn’t see her there.
The second thing that always happens is that a child walks into the room and switches on CBBC before walking out again never to return two minutes later. For the next hour, That Cooking Fat and I are staring mindlessly at children’s television programmes, with my occasionally letting out a guffaw as I do truly ‘get’ kiddie humour. I’m not really sure what that says about me, but feel free to offer your opinion..
So I’m making a blog note to always write in the morning, when all people below five foot are at school and all pets, hopefully ever remaining under five foot, are full bellied and out chasing swallows.
It is hard to kick your own butt into gear when you don’t have a boss on your back screaming deadlines at you. And incentive is missing because no one is actually paying you to do anything yet. I promised me when I gave up my job to ‘find myself,’ I would have more time to be the kind of perfect mum/housewife I always dreamed I’d be at the same time. The family home would be a shiny, dustfree palace; the children would be glowing with health from cordon bleu cook-it-from-scratch cuisine and we’d all have drawers full of freshly pressed teeshirts everyday. Never again would my man be forced to wear a jumper on hot days because he or I couldn’t find time to iron him a shirt. And I’d go to children’s plays and parents evenings to confirm my place in the mummy playground gang. I didn’t have to enjoy them, did I?
Looking around me now reader, (bit presumptious I know…) I see some of last nights dinner, all of today’s rice cake droppings and some oddly coloured splashes all over the floor tiles, mixed apetizingly with little clumps of ginger cat hair. In a tightly closed off cupboard behind me lies a pile of clothes dubbed ‘Mount Ironest’ by the whole family. And the exciting, healthy homemade fayre? Well, now I have given up a salary to attempt to write under a cats arse, I know fifty ways to make a packet of Tesco’s own chicken portions last a fortnight. Beat that Mr Jamie I’ll-show-you-how-to-feed-a-family-for-a-fiver Oliver (with your sundried tomatoes and vanilla pods).
As for the mummy playground gang, I still can’t stand women who have nothing to do but talk about cats, housework, cooking and kids….
So anyway. What do you think of ACDC? *skips off playing air guitar like the cool ‘mother’ I am*