Carole’s out for a belated birthday treat tonight.
Which means I have the house to myself.
On a Friday night.
And you know what that means?
If you guessed that the rest of that would be “IRING UP SOCKS” then you’d be right.
Because, apparently, the kind of rock and roll lifestyle I seem to lead is one in which – when presented with a Friday night alone – I clean the kitchen, do a couple of loads of washing, hoover downstairs and sort the bins out. And consider it daring and/or adventurous to eat a Time Out after 9pm while drinking a cup of tea. No caffeine after seven be damned, I say.
It hasn’t all been plain sailing though. I have had a dialogue with myself (ok, a two-way monologue then) in which I debated whether it was too late to do any hoovering – it was coming up to eight o’clock and there are small children on either side of us, after all. And then I heard, on one side at least, the little buggers running around causing chaos and figured that me doing a spot of domestic drudgery wouldn’t do any more harm to their lives than the laid back approach of the parents. I mean, even as I type this now, some two hours later, there is still the sound of rampaging children echoing through the walls. I could still probably hoover now, if I so desired, with little or no guilt sweeping through my body.
Not that there was much guilt flooding through me in the first place.
And anyway, I’m not sure the sound of the hoover would really have made much of a difference…
What with me having the radio on quite loud and the washing machine being on a spin cycle.
This is why I shouldn’t be left alone on a Friday.
I am such a rebel.