![]() ![]() ![]() “I don’t like them, they look like flies” isn’t an adequate excuse for pushing it with your foot under the sofa, sorry. But what I do know is what’s left behind: half-drawn comics featuring sinister wolves, scraps of black card everywhere, tubes upon tubes of glitter glue with the tops left off, an old hot cross bun with the raisins all picked out. My children don’t give me any concrete or believable explanations as to how, for example, playing a recorder very loudly into my right ear at the same time as I try to take a work call is helping me, exactly or how cutting open a milk carton, turning the top upside down and sticking it outside “to collect acid rain” is supposed to work. Now, I’ll be honest, it just feels like a trap. At the time, it felt almost altruistic: he said he wanted to help me “stay there to do work”. That was (naturally) followed by an experiment which involved him sticking one of my feet to the floor with electrical tape – a cute trick he stumbled upon during lockdown, and which is all too often repeated. FML.Īn hour later, of course, and you would have found me at the dining table, covered in “space dust” while my son conducted a Very Important Excavation (aka: trying to smash open a ball of clay with a wooden mallet to “see what was inside it”). That’s right: it was grey and drizzling outside and below freezing, but in between edits there I was in the garden, hunched over to stop the wind, holding an extra-long cooking match to a box of PG Tips. ![]() Speaking of tea bags, allow me to provide a vista into what “working from home” and “mess” really means when you’re solely responsible for two under-10s: just the other day (around the same time that the scandal over Nadhim Zahawi’s tax affairs gathered pace, as it happens) my six-year-old son was out of class because he was ill except that of course – as soon as I’d resigned myself to not going into the office, and diligently contacted the school to say that he wouldn’t be in – he made a remarkable recovery and asked me to set fire to a tea bag. Are you even a parent if you don’t wade through a tsunami of shoes, empty Pom-Bear packets, softly browning apple cores and a homemade “art installation” featuring a lump of Blu Tack and a tea bag (”don’t throw it away, I made it for you!”) just to get out of the door in the morning? ![]()
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