drop off; fruit shop; butcher; dance pick up.
Evening—make dinner; deliver girls to social event(s) as required; glass of wine (hold back because I’m driving); bit of TV; collect girls from social event(s) as required. Bed.
That left lawn mowing, cleaning, ironing and a potential second dog walk for Sunday.
Unfortunately, my plan had the unintended consequence of making me even more depressed. It wasn’t really the recipe for a great weekend. But anyway, there was no time to waste. I managed to get the washing on and start the vacuuming. Sophie appeared and made breakfast—and a mess. Cereals and margarine left out, bowl and plate on top of the dishwasher but not in it.
“Can you put your things in the dishwasher?” I shouted over the vacuum cleaner.
“I can’t because it’s full of clean stuff,” she replied, as she disappeared back upstairs to the pleasures of Facebook.
And should I have been surprised? The girls had never been responsible for chores before, after all, they had been used to having two parents to keep the house running. I didn’t want to be too tough on day one, so I stopped vacuuming to unstack the dishwasher in the vain hope that it might result in the girls putting their dirty dishes in it—it made no difference initially, but we got there in the end.
Back to the vacuuming. Annabel appeared.
“Dad, I need to get some new ballet shoes before dance this afternoon.”
“Okay, after I’ve finished the vacuuming,” I said. “Don’t forget to put your dirty stuff in the dishwasher.”
It sounded more like a plea than a firm instruction.
Time check: 10.30am. According to my plan I was supposed to be back from the dog walk by 11 o’clock and having a coffee. In reality I was way behind schedule and starting to feel a bit stressed.
But, again, no time to waste, we jumped in the car and set off to Camberwell to get the ballet shoes. Do you know what Saturday traffic is like? It’s a disaster—and finding somewhere to park was a nightmare. I was continually out-foxed by little old ladies. I would drive round and round looking for a parking space, while they would slowly follow someone who was walking along carrying shopping bags until they got to their car, and then sit blocking off the lane with their indicator flashing. But, eventually, I found a space—joy! Looked at the sign—P10 and not 2P—bollocks! Ten minutes—we would have to run.
Got the shoes. Annabel wanted a Boost juice on the way back to the car. No time. Let’s go. Argument. Stress. Why are kids so unreasonable? Please don’t cry. I stopped in my tracks. Who was being unreasonable here? It was me. The poor girl was going through the trauma of a family break-up for God’s sake, was no doubt missing her mother, and I was being an unreasonable parent by rushing her back to the car when what she needed was some time out with a Boost. It wasn’t all about me and my schedule.
So we both got a Boost and, rather than running back to the car, sat on a bench to drink them. Maybe I would get a parking ticket, but it was more important right now to spend some time with my daughter. I apologised to her for being so mean. I explained that I had to learn how to run the house properly, that it was going to be hard work until I got used to it and, if I got cranky, it would be because I was frustrated with myself, and not because I was cross with her or her sister. She didn’t say much apart from “I love you Dad”. I felt my heart break and wished that I had my shades with me because I could feel my eyes welling up (and I can still feel the tears all these years later as I write this).
We walked back to the car hand-in-hand. This had been the first real conversation I’d had with my daughter for a long time. It wasn’t just my world that had been turned on its head—her world was also on its head. What she needed most of all was not a clean house and a nicely mown lawn, but some time with me where we could talk or just sit together sharing a Boost. Come to think of it, that was what I needed too. As we walked I resolved that the girls would come first, before anything else, and that my prime purpose as a father would be to make sure they had as normal and as happy a childhood as I could possibly give them. It put everything into perspective—and I didn’t even get a parking ticket. I took this as a sign that God was on my side.
Back home. Time check: Lunchtime. Where had the morning gone? Rethink required. The three of us had lunch together. I couldn’t remember the last time we had done this, and it was fun. We made toasted sandwiches, trying to outdo each other with the number of fillings we could fit in and the most imaginative mess that we could make. The girls even put their dirty plates in the dishwasher, unfortunately in a slightly disorganised way that required some significant re-packing, but it was a start.
A quick cup of tea and I was ready for the big afternoon push. I loaded the entire family of girls and dogs into the car; dropped off the two-legged members at dance; walked the four-legged members in the park; got back home; checked the fridge and set off to the fruit shop and butcher. Very efficient. I rewarded myself with a small, Tim Henman-esq, fist pump.
“You miserable, lazy bastard,” I heard myself muttering, not loudly but not quietly enough. I was standing outside the butcher’s shop looking at his sign that informed me that his Saturday opening hours were 8.30am to 12.30pm. Why? Did he think that he was doing the community a favour by sacrificing part of his weekend and deigning to open on a Saturday morning? What about all the poor sods who only got the chance to do their shopping at the weekend? This was Saturday afternoon, peak time—why not think of the customer and close on Monday instead, you selfish bugger?
Down the street to the fruit shop. Same story. Shutters drawn, no official opening hours displayed, but obviously the greengrocer had had enough of today as well and was probably now having a nice sit down and a well-earned beer with the butcher.
A little old lady walked past me towing a fat Corgi. She had obviously overheard my muttering about the selfishness of my local purveyors of fresh meat and vegetables and gave me a look that seemed to say “young people today”. For a moment I actually thought I was going to have a major melt down and apply my right foot to the rear end of her waddling pooch.
But there was no point taking out my frustration on a geriatric dog or its geriatric owner, I had work to do, and besides, I had two dogs that I could kick later in the privacy of my own home if I needed to. There was an hour before dance pick up. Could I get to Coles, shop, unpack and be at dance within an hour? It would be tight, but if I didn’t go now there was a real danger that I was going to run into dinnertime.
Back in the car and off to Coles. Saturday afternoon shopping is very different to the late night or Sunday morning dashes to pick up some milk or bread that I was used to. Normal y it’s easy to park at Coles—but not on a Saturday afternoon. Round and round I went looking for a space. Level 1, then Level 2, then Level 3—still no success. Time was running short. I was incapable of rational thought. Why did all these people have to shop now? Should the Government force people to shop in their own suburb? Why didn’t Coles have executive parking as they do at the airport? Why did people dawdle so much?
My frenzied thinking was interrupted by my sudden emergence from the darkness into the light, not metaphorically but literally, the top floor of the car park was in the open. I had never been this far up in the car park before and I was temporarily in awe of my discovery—wait ‘til I tell my friends about this, I thought.
Unfortunately, my brief moment of wonder was shattered by the realisation that the downside of being on the top of the car park was being further from the actual shop itself. I ran to the lift and pressed the button. A little old lady smiled at me. I pressed the button a few more times on the basis
