So that was the weekend that was.
There you are planning a silent Sunday.
A day of mooching.
A halcyon homage to bimbling.
A day of doing nothing. Nada. Not a sausage. The plan is a blank sheet of paper.
A day devoted to chilling. An easy Sunday.
It all starts so well.
A long lie (well until 9am). I remember those good old days when I had on my rose tinted specs when a long lie meant lying in luxury until noon, but hey you gotta take what you can when you can.
So there I was – a long lie, slowly waking up, wandering downstairs to get a proper coffee that has bubbled to pouring perfection on the stove before wandering back upstairs to sink back into that delicious duvet to enjoy a slurp of the most important drink of the day.
Then chaos claps on its hat and reigns down harder and faster that the storm of Barney can unleash its hell.
Enter stupid dog. The dog bounds in. The stupid dog bounds on the bed, coffee spills onto lovely clean duvet.
Then small things wake.
Then a lovely autumnal dog walk which mainly involves a lost dog and four small things skiing down a slope of autumn leaves (which to be fair looked like fun), a dog in the rain overflow channel (equals a minging dog that still stinks), a wet dog, sodden kids and frankly not enough coffee to drown out the noise.
A respite was offered. A coffee with a friend. Thirty minutes to chew the cud, actually drink a full cup of coffee whilst repeatedly asking the 13yo and 9yo to leave me alone for just ten minutes so I could have one grown up conversation.
Then a quick shopping trip for promised new trainers for the 9yo (old trainers were presenting holes found during sodden dog walk) followed by the Tesco dash for the week’s packed lunches (would have gone to Aldi but parking was an issue) and oh sh*t forgot to wash the school uniforms.
Two hasty washes later and a tea with friend beckons.
The 9yo then tries to wear his favourite shirt (still wet on the radiator after earlier hasty washing), I remove said wet shirt to a sulky face and persuade 9yo to wear a dry item of clothing from his drawer as the 13 yo informs me she’s got a sore throat (join the club) and we dash to the local Italian for an long and lazy tea.
A restaurant, a steak and a 13yo that decides she’s not feeling well and frankly a bit faint – complete with comical head wobbling at the table.
Dramatics ensue, restaurant abandoned (steak inhaled, wine abandoned). 13 yo voms.
Vom cleaned up. 13 yo put to bed (complete with additional dramatics – turns out her nose is more blocked than anybody’s nose has ever been blocked before).
9yo put to bed.
13yo traumatized because she can’t breathe through her nose. Vicks applied.
Inhales wine. Me not the 13yo – she’s still whimpering at the loss of nose breathing.
Bed beckons. The duvet greets me.
Air punches to a successful Silent Sunday.*
Next time I plan an easy Sunday, I’m just gonna run a half marathon. It would be easier.
*That was a lie, falls in bed in a knackered stupor waiting for the ticking timebomb that is the 13yo’s midnight vomming.