Scoffing another fishfinger even though I’m stuffed. Seven and a half minutes and it’ll be The Archers and, before long it’s bed time. Yawn.
Evening after evening. Nothing gets accomplished except bickering, cajoling and over eating.
It’s not as if I don’t have high hopes. I dash home – usually extracting Boy Three from whichever corner of the After School field is that day’s den on the way. I greet the big Boys warmly, they grunt. Surveying the scatter of dishes, dirty clothes, unpicked up dropped things and smears, my heart sinks.
“What’s for supper?” One of the Boys lurches in, he probably wants something. And it certainly won’t be the healthy home-made meal I’m about to prepare.
I nag about chores and homework, chivvy to get whoever it is ready for whatever they’ve got on that night. Hurry up.
Laundry in, laundry out, dishes in, dishes out. Tidy up. Brats to bed. Brats to bed again. And again.
And ping, it’s all done for today. Nothing is further forward except that I’m a day older and marginally fatter.
So after a few weeks of this I’ve decided to chuck some blog as it, this dreary, droopy, ineffectual evening slump. Expect down and dirty posts blogged from the front line of the great fishfinger famine.