My daughter was at nursery today and my son had a settling-in session this morning, in preparation for his starting day next month when I go back to work. He seemed to be enjoying himself so I left him to it and made my way home with a spring in my step.
I had two hours until I had to pick him up. Two blissful, child-free, glorious, bonus hours to do with exactly as I pleased. And what did I do….?
I cleaned the oven.
Now any sensible person, given the opportunity to slack off their regular duties for a couple of hours, would have probably placed oven cleaning somewhere between callous removal and pulling the hairs from the plughole, in terms of priorities. But no, according to my warped sense of task completion, this was apparently of huge importance and couldn’t wait another day. Despite the fact that the oven was purchased well over six months ago and the inside hasn’t caught so much as a glimpse of a cleaning product, I seemed to get it into my head that it would spontaneously combust if the layers of food weren’t scraped from within immediately.
So, when hubby returns tonight, I shall no doubt don dying swan mode, look at him with weary eyes and bemoan my exhausting day as a charlady. At which point, he’ll probably look back at me as if I’m mad and daydream about all those Sky+ programmes he would have caught up on if he’d had a couple of hours free time.
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