The Bangles were right. Monday’s really are manic. And more than a little bit shit.
When the alarm clock squawks into life and unwelcomingly announces that Monday morning has rolled round once again, the temptation to bury oneself under the duvet and hibernate is almost overwhelming.
The only reason I don’t go into duvet-hibernation is because my husband has been emitting silent farts under the covers all night and I fear being gassed. So, reluctantly, as my bed smells like the inside of a packet of dry-roasted peanuts, I get up and begin another week on Planet Earth.
Every week I bemoan that I should be more organised. After all, my only tasks each morning are to get a nine-year old to school by 8.45am and arrive at work by 9.15am not wearing pyjamas. It’s not like I’ve been asked to learn Mandarin in an evening or unlock the secrets of the Ancient Pyramids before tea-break is it?
I leave the bedroom, bleary eyed, to make the first of many bucket-sized mugs of coffee. As my feet hit the cold floor, I discover I only have one slipper. I eventually find the other one three days later in the dog’s basket.
Whilst the kettle boils, I survey the remains of last night’s supper. Beef stroganoff is firmly welded to a saucepan, because I made the decision to fall asleep in front of Holby City the previous night in the hope that the Washing Up Fairies might load the dishwasher for me. They didn’t. The fairy gits.
I run the sink and ‘put the saucepan in to soak’, which makes me feel that I’ve done something positive.
Coffee in hand, I yell up the stairs to my son that it is time to get up. It’s met with silence. I yell again. Nothing. Muttering bad swears under my breath, I haul myself back up the stairs and yank the duvet from my son’s bed. He is awake already, on his iPad FFS. He professes profusely that he didn’t hear me.
While this pantomime is taking place, my husband takes the opportunity to do his morning ablutions in peace and bugger off to work.
Usually on a Monday morning, my son will try to tell me has contracted the flu overnight, more recently it's the Corona Virus. Anything that he can think of that means he is far too poorly for school and should therefore stay at home with an Xbox controller welded to his hand.
After a few grim warnings from me about taking him to the doctors for A Very Big Injection to stop the spread of said Corona Virus, he makes his way downstairs and pours cereal onto the kitchen floor. A few Cornflakes even make it into his bowl. Luckily the dog is on hand to vacuum up the spillage. I often use our Canine Hoover for floor cleaning duties – so much easier to use than the Dyson.
My son eats his breakfast and continues to play on the iPad . I, on the other hand, am making packed lunches, signing a permission trip for an educational visit to the National Space Centre that should’ve been handed in three days ago and mentally making a shopping list as there is bugger all food in the fridge which means it’s cheese triangle spread sandwiches again.
At this point, my son looks up from his iPad and cheerfully informs me that he has cookery today and needs the ingredients for a Victoria sponge. Most households would have the rudimentary basics to make a cake in their store cupboards. But not ours. I find a packet of flour at the back of the cupboard that has a 2018 date on it, some sugar that has formed one giant crystal in its bag, and a solitary egg of unknown date.
Factoring in an impromptu trip to the shops to buy ingredients for a shit cake, wasn’t part of the plan. But in order to gain back a few precious moments to whizz around Tesco Express, I herd my child towards the bathroom to have a wash, clean his teeth and get dressed.
While he is doing this, I indulge in a luxurious eight-second long shower and brush my own teeth. Deciding that my hair can last another day, I give it a spritz of dry shampoo and pull it into a ponytail. Applying make-up is done in a flash. If I get mascara on both eyes, it’s a bonus.
Finally, I am almost presentable. This is a win in my book.
I call my son to tell him we have three minutes in which to get in the car, get to the shop and then get to school. He appears at his bedroom door wearing his socks. Just his socks. It appears he was distracted from getting dressed by his Match Attack football cards. I threaten to send him to school in just his socks. He bids a hasty retreat to dress, as he is not convinced is am sane enough not to follow through on my threat.
Finally, we leave the house. I’ve got middle-aged sweats from the exertion and stress and am wearing the one pair of pants I own that get stuck up my bum crack. This doesn’t improve my mood.
I fly through the Tesco Express like a woman possessed, grabbing sugar, eggs, flour, butter and jam. The self-checkout throws a wobbly and will not scan my jam. I loudly call it an arsehole and must wait for a kindly lady to press a few buttons for me before I can pay.
Back it the car, we reach the school gates, where I am informed that, actually, cookery is on Tuesday and not Monday. Fighting the urge to scream, I bid my son goodbye, push him onto the school premises, and breath a sign of relief as my responsibilities as a parent are finished for the next six hours. But my responsibilities as an adult are just beginning as I now have thirteen minutes to do twenty-three minute journey to the office.
I’d like to say that it was was just another manic Monday, and that tomorrow would be better. But then it’s Terrible Tuesday, Wicked Wednesday, Tragic Thursday and Frightful Friday. It’s never ending… at least until we get to Sauvignon Blanc Saturday.
Have a great week!
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