Sister in Chicago (temporarily in Delhi, in Brussels for the weekend – try to keep up): So, I’m not entitled to those tax breaks any more. And I pay tax at 33%.
Me: Mmmm.
Her: I can’t believe that I’m now classified as a high earner. How can this be happening in George Bush’s America?
My sister is sick. I understand that this is frequently a side effect of living in India.
Me: Your poor aunt is sick.
Princess: Why?
Me: Probably something she ate in India.
Princess: Why?
Me: Well maybe someone put dirty hands or dirty water on it.
Princess: Why?
Me: I don’t know, anyway, your poor aunt got a bug.
Princess: What?
Me: You know a bug, like a germ.
Princess: That you get from not washing your hands after doing a poo.
Me: YES.
Princess (to my sister): Stop eating poo.
I had a little break yesterday morning and drove my sister to the airport at 6.45 to catch her flight back to Delhi. She is finding India trying. The local staff are anxious to whip up her enthusiasm by taking her on a white water rafting team building trip for the rest of the week. I am looking forward to my debrief when she’s back within mobile phone coverage but I can’t feel that diarrhoea and white water rafting is a great combination. But her address contains the words “posh enclave”, can it be all bad?
I have for some time harboured the ambition of going to Easter Sunday mass with my family so between 8.00 and 10.45, Mr. Waffle and I herded the children out the door. Only two of them screamed incessantly during this period. When we got to mass, the Princess whispered to me “Can we go and see the statue of sick Jesus?” Off we went. She looked at the pieta and said “but he’s still sick”. I had to explain that the likeness was taken while he was sick but that he was better now. The Princess is experiencing some confusion of ideas about Easter, so she said “And now that he is better and Lent is over, he can eat all the chocolates he likes”.
And in other news, I am somewhat behind in my reading which is why I missed Beth’s kind words about my blog. Kind, good Beth. I would reciprocate and say nice things about her blog but then you would go away and read it and never come back to me. Though I will say that the Easter snap of her little girl is rather gorgeous.
A friend of mine who is an employment barrister has advised me not to blog about work. I feel that this is good advice but here I am ignoring it. I suppose that this is what good advice is for.
But surely, it’s alright, if I want to say good things? On Sunday, Mr. Waffle said to me “hang in there we go back to work on Tuesday” and I smiled feebly.
The other day I got a call from a friend and former colleague.
Him: You’re back at work then.
Me: Yup.
Him: How are you finding it?
Me: It’s great actually.
Him: It’s grim here.
Me: My boss is fantastic.
Him: I’m up to my tonsils.
Me: And my staff are bright, hardworking, pleasant and (very important this) obliging.
Him (suggestion of gritted teeth): Good for you.
Me (sunnily): And I have just the right amount of work, not so much that I am stressed, not so little that I am bored.
Him (definite gritted teeth): Marvellous.
Me: And I got a call from one of the boss of bosses today and she said that a) she was delighted I was pleased with the flowers she sent to me on the birth of the boys and b) she had the picture of them that I sent with my thank you card on her desk and c) she is in Brussels in a couple of weeks with the top boss and perhaps we could all go for a nice lunch.
Him: Lovely for you. (Reflective pause) You know, it should always be like that.
Me: But it isn’t, I feel as though the gods have conspired to make everything in my working life perfect.
Him (maliciously): You working mothers hate your children, don’t you?
After bed time
Me:Â Is that the Princess crying?
Him:Â Yes.
Me: I thought it was Daniel.
Him: Him too, it’s a medley.
Me: Cup of tea?
April is a transitional month. Our arrangements for this month are of dizzying complexity. In fact, if I were run over by a bus, I am pretty certain that Mr. Waffle would have no idea of where our children might be.
Today is Thursday. At lunchtime on Thursdays, I collect the boys from the creche to drop them off at home where, from 2 o’clock, our childminder tends to their every need. I got caught up in some work and didn’t leave the office until 1.45. I knew that the childminder would be wondering where we were, so I zoomed home as quickly as I could. I was surprised and delighted at what excellent time I made and it was only as I turned into the garage that I realised that there was a reason why the trip had been so speedy. Yup, I forgot to pick up the boys.