The girls went to their dad’s this weekend. Then Oscar went off on Saturday afternoon for a sleepover at his friends’ house until Sunday afternoon.
This meant that Jason and I were alone, in our own house, together. WITHOUT CHILDREN.
No children at all.
I do not remember the last time this happened. Possibly last year, but actually that doesn’t really count because that involved me having to take him to Harrogate for the weekend, so we ran away from the children rather than the children actually all going out and leaving us at home.
Now, I love a good luxury hotel weekend away as much as the next person, but there is nothing quite as decadent when you are used to having your house full of children and their assorted friends, as when they all bugger off and leave you.
It was quiet. Oh lord it was quiet. No doors slammed, nobody trampled up and downstairs like wildebeest fleeing a hungry lion. Nobody burst in on me in the middle of an important chapter/crucial televisual moment with a piece of news that just couldn’t wait. There were no sounds of people trying to murder each other. There were no tinny echoes of Taylor Swift wafting down through the floorboards. Nobody came to talk to me about fractions while I was in the bath.
It was lovely.
Then there was the fact that we could please ourselves.
We were starving at five o’clock, so we got in the car, drove to our favourite curry house and had an early dinner because we fancied it. We talked about things without having to explain world peace, or Noel Edmunds or global warming or why it isn’t acceptable to fart so hard you blow a hole in upholstery. We did not have to negotiate over whether we would have pudding or why Coca Cola is not an option, or discuss the fact that just because mummy might like a glass of wine doesn’t make her an alcoholic.
After we had finished, we came home, crashed on the sofa in our pyjamas and attempted to catch up with watching The Bridge. We had only managed two episodes by this point. We managed one. Again, no interruptions, no having to explain sub-titles or get small children to go away so they don’t have nightmares.
Jason fell asleep after one episode. He went to bed early, because he could. I stayed up and read my book until 1.30 a.m.
In the morning we got up when we wanted, without having to rouse anyone else or prepare anyone for anything, or answer seventeen million questions about what we might do that day.
Then we binged watched five episodes of The Bridge on a diet of Doritos, biscuits, bacon sandwiches and gin and tonic until the children came home.
Honestly. It might sound boring, or pedestrian to those of you with no children, but it was bliss, absolute bliss.
As for The Bridge. What a magnificent programme. I am no further forward. I have spotted the murderer 18 times in each episode so far. I love it. What with Luther coming back this week and the final two episodes of The Bridge on Saturday night, I think I might have to drug the children and keep them in the shed for the next week in order to fit in all the macabre viewing I require.