Making Time to Work

I’ve the house to myself; kids are all at school and husband’s at work. The carpets are overdue for a hoover and the someone’s helpfully written “dust me” across the screen of the TV, but I bravely ignore my wifey duties and enter my office.

I remove husbands iPod and empty can of lager from the desk then turn on the computer. While the screen is flickering to life, I go back into the kitchen and flick the kettle on. I decide to empty the dishwasher, and stack it with the breakfast dishes while it boils.

Phone rings. It’s my my mum, and she wants to know if my youngest got off to school OK (he’s five and suddenly realised school is an everyday thing and isn’t pleased by the prospect). We chat, and I decide to dust while we natter (hands free phone – genius invention!). When she’s hung up, I feel I need to dust properly and that includes the top of the skirting boards, pictures, curtain rails etc. Then I think I may as well as well hoover after all.

Putting away the hoover I remember I put the kettle on for a coffee, and reboil it. In my office I sit in front of my computer as the kettle boils. I check my emails, most are spam but I’ve some important ones to answer, as well as a few from friends. Of course I open my friends first. Hmm Helen has added me on facebook, about blooming time, I grumble, and can’t resist a click to see her profile and then write her a message.

After looking through the rest of my emails, I decide to head on over to Talk Back, a website for writers. I “chat” with a few members, and someone mentions she’s bought a new handbag (it isn’t always about writing!) and I’m suddenly remembered of what I’m watching on EBay. I head on over there. I’m watching a Lego Darth Vader (don’t ask), a River Island handbag (love bags. Got millions) and a couple of gaming chairs for my two youngest children’s birthdays. I’m still in the lead with my bids, so everything is fine. I’ve a message but it’s only from EBay requesting zero amount of money. Why’d they do that? What’s the point?

I remember I’ve boiled the kettle and go out to make myself a cup of coffee. I glance at the clock and it’s almost eleven. Where does the time go? I boil the kettle (again), and then wonder if the frozen chicken would defrost in time for tonight’s dinner. I think I’ll make a roast. I decide to peel the potatoes and veg now while I remember (and while the kettle reboils).

The letter box rattles as I finish off the veg, and I head out to gather up the letters from the floor. Three junk letters and several bills – one of which is red, I can see through the window. Oops. I leave them for later.

Stomach rumbles and I decide on an early lunch, but glancing at the clock on entry to the kitchen I notice it’s twelve. The kettle goes on again as I set about making myself a sandwich. I take my lunch out into the conservatory and eat whilst reading a Karen Marie Moning novel. I finish eating, but am still reading. I can’t put it down.

Phone rings. It’s eldest son and he’ll be late home from school tonight as he’s getting a bus into town to see a film with his girlfriend. My eyes glance at the clock. It’s almost three! In twenty minutes I’ll have to go and pick up the youngest rugrats from school.

In the office I open the novel I’m working on, but can’t resist a check to see if I’ve any more emails. I have and I open them. Helen has sent me one regarding the message I sent her, Mad Marie has sent me a picture of her new handbag and I’ve been outbid for Darth Vader.

With a few minutes to spare I dash out to pick up the children from school. Youngest is waiting beside his classroom door with his teacher searching over heads for me; always late and I can’t think why. She hands over my darling child and we head off to the next classroom for his brother, while we wait I chat to other mothers. Youngest son runs off to play, and when other son comes out he rushes to join him leaving me to able to arrange a night out with a group of mums. I gather the sprogs and happily saunter off home.

‘What’s for dinner?’ my children cry, once we are home. Damn, I never did get the chicken out of the freezer. What to have with potatoes and veg?

‘Sausages,’ I answer. ‘Now go and play, mummy’s busy.’

They tucked into the biscuit tin, and I tuck into my novel.
Oh, and why does the coffee always taste so bad?

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