My morning ritual has been turned upside down.
I woke to the sound of a French news channel. Starting the day with words like ‘Saddam Hussein’ and ‘Nicholas Sarkozy’ is not something I do out of choice, but somewhere down the line Mr Frog got custody of the alarm clock. As it’s on his side of the bed and I’m woefully short-sighted, I am entirely at his mercy. I don’t even know what time it is. The aural assault from the radio does not even wake the Frog from his slumber. But a well-placed prod and a loud groan of protest does the trick. Mr Frog eventually hits ‘snooze’ (if I’m lucky and he doesn’t turn it off altogether by mistake) and the ritual is repeated another four or five times. By then I’m cutting it really fine.
In the next 30 minutes I proceed to:
- prepare Tadpole’s favourite blend of imported Reddy Brek and Rice Krispies in the microwave;
- have the world’s shortest shower;
- endeavour to rouse the Tadpole whilst grabbing some non-matching clothes in the semi-darkness;
- dress Tadpole and brave her frantically pedalling legs to change her nappy;
- supervise eating of breakfast, just in case Tadpole chokes on aforementioned Rice Krispies; scrape off the quick drying concrete-like residue from her face;
- mummify Tadpole and self in various coats, mittens, hats and scarves;
- hastily apply lipstick in the mirror inside the lift;
- push screaming Tadpole (who currently hates the pushchair but walks really slowly) to the childminder’s.
Meanwhile Mr Frog languishes in the bath tub, eyes closed.
A word of warning: if you are planning to start a family and your partner assures you that of course he will share the responsibility and do his fair share of tasks around the house, ensure that he puts that IN WRITING. Preferably in blood.
Twenty minutes of metro madness later, I arrive late, breathless and apologetic at the office, clutching a paper bag containing a hastily purchased, patently unhealthy breakfast snack. I crank up my computer to prepare the day’s post, sipping a triple espresso. The boss won’t be arriving until, say, 10 or 10.30 am, so I’m secure in the knowledge that I have a little uninterrupted blogging time ahead of me…
Except I DON’T. Not any more. The boss has decided to change his routine and has arrived at the office at 7.30am every day this week.
Which means that when I arrive four days in a row at 9.09 am, clutching a Starbucks orange and cinnamon scone I shouldn’t really have stopped to buy, given my degree of tardiness, the boss glances pointedly at his watch. It also means that my in-tray is piled 30 centimetres high with things he thoughtfully prepared earlier. Enough to keep me busy all morning.
So please excuse the sporadic posting this week, it is due to events beyond my control. I am confident that it won’t last (just like all the other short-lived lifestyle changes the Boss has implemented in the past), but if it does, I will have no alternative but to look for a more blog-friendly job.