Friday:
Ok day at work, then for the first time since last pregnancy go out for a 'drink' with colleagues afterwards. Sensibly decide to stick to beer as it doesn't give me a hangover.
Navigate the tram home and stagger into the house at 10.30 pm clutching a Tesco microwaveable meal (chinese cuisine I think, can't remember eating it). Try to converse with my husband but am treated with disdain for not making sense, smelling like metholated spirits, and also due to the fact that the kids had been up and down all evening.
Evicted from the bedroom for drunken snoring, so spend restless night on the sofa bed.
Saturday:
Woken at 6 am by two noisy children. Hungover. Mouth like bottom of budgies cage. Remember the beer-not-causing-a-hangover theory applied in my twenties. I am 39.
Children sense that I am weak and at a disadvantage and proceed to mercilessly exploit my fragile condition.
It rains torrentially all day. We are housebound.
I am a bad parent. I shout, beg, plead, bribe and at one point weep. Today was a day to be endured at best. Everyone grumpy.
Sunday:
Wake up and spring out of bed with the joy of one who has not consumed any alcohol for 32 hours. Am back on form. Can deal with anything the little darlings throw at me.
Declare that we are spending some quality family time together to make up for previous day, so pack everyone into the car and head for the beach.
Spend wonderful time playing on the beach in typically schizophrenic Northern British weather - both blazing sunshine and gale force winds at the same time. Eat sand infused ice cream and hot dogs and love every bite.
Take kids to tacky seaside funfair and spend ridiculous amount of money on rides and deep fried food. Turn into Homer Simpson for a few moments "mmmmmm, doughnuts......".
Everybody weary, sunburnt and sandblasted. A good day. Slept like a log.
