Home, home on the range

My husband is home, home from the wars!

I can now finish weaving that bloody tapestry, wait for him to slay all my other suitors (ha!) and get back to living on this blasted rock, enjoying the domestic bliss of picking up his stiff socks and hearing him shout at me for not packing the dish washer the right way round.

I am truly thrilled.

No. Really.

He is having a few weeks off, apparently, before embarking on his next contract, so we shall make the most of it.

You would think, this morning, that we would despatch the children to school, get dressed up in our glad rags and head for the hills in a decadent display of hedonistic pleasure.

Instead we have donned our pyjamas and boiled the kettle ninety six times.

It works for us.

I am pleased that he is back because I miss him when he is away. I am pleased that he is back because he hated it out there for many reasons, none of which are suitable for blog consumption. I am pleased that he is back because we might be able to fit in an actual date in the next week or two, and those are few and far between in a house with three children, a maundering cat and a demented, suicidal tortoise.

I am pleased that he is back because there are domestic issues which I can tackle on my own, but which are infinitely easier with two.

For instance:

Derek needs to go to the V E T for her annual prodding and stabbing. This is never a solo operation, and since February I have had to co-opt friends, family, strangers in the street to help me juggle felines, baskets, parking, administering meds etc. It makes me all sweaty just thinking about it. So now, one of our hot dates will be to the Oadby Veterinary Centre.

Steady.

Lightbulbs need changing. I know. I know. It is easy. But I hate doing it. I am always convinced, even though I have checked eleventytrillion times that the switch is off, that I will put the bulb in and blow myself to smithereens and the children will come running in to the smell of charred pork, and find me laid out on the floor looking like Thing One.

My car is due for an MOT. I HATE doing this with a passion that remains undimmed over the years. I never know where my paperwork is. I always find myself carless at a time when a child explodes, or I suddenly have to be in Manchester or someone wants to bequeath me an unwieldy piece of furniture. It sucks. Jason is supremely organised about these things, and then there is the fact that we have his car to transport the whatnot in, or drive to Abergavenny. Huzzah.

I am going to the theatre next week. I usually start getting nervous about now, desperately trying to sort out baby sitting and fretting because it is inevitable that on the days I am going to the theatre, no matter how far in advance I pre-book them, everyone I know and trust with children will also be pre-booked. This time I can just leave them in his capable hands.

It feels like freedom to me.

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