There are days at school when I wonder why they keep me.
Apart from for the entertainment value.
And then there are the days when I don’t stop whirring about from the minute I get in, and I think that there really aren’t enough hours in the day.
I like those days best, and today was one of those days.
Contrary bugger that I am, by lunch time I did find myself looking wistfully back to last week and the lack of bells and alarms in my life, and how lovely that was.
The grass is always greener…
and the alarm is always quieter.
Except on Saturday.
I set my alarm on Friday night you see. Oscar was getting up to go on a birthday expotition with his granna, and I was setting out to go to the theatre with Andrea, so we had to be up.
After driving back from Wales on Friday afternoon, and unpacking and doing laundry and generally tidying up when we got home, I fell into bed with deep gratitude on Friday night. And even deeper snoring.
The alarm went off, and I groped my hand out to shut it off. I stuffed the phone (it is my alarm) under my bleary eye to see how much snoozing time I had left before I really had to get up.
It was 8.00 a.m.
I woke up totally, as if someone had just chucked a bucket of icy water over me.
The first word out of my mouth was:
I then scrambled for my clothes, muttering to myself:
‘Why the bloody hell did I set the alarm for 8.00 a.m.? I must be insane. The children have to be at school in forty minutes. Oh. Dear. God.’
Then, with one leg stuck in my knicker leg I stopped.
‘It is Saturday.’
The second word I said was;