I’m working from home as I write, for a few reasons over and above new Tier 3 implementations in place for my council area. My new work has facilitated home working by suppling us with laptops, thank you kindly, and there are enough staff in my own business premises to make me anything more than a nuisance if I go to ‘help’.
They are exceptionally polite and reduce their exasperation to a muffled sigh when I try to get involved. I trust them implicitly. They’re better at it than I am. I just occasionally like to feel I can still help and they’re a kind, tolerant bunch, bless ’em.
Today is an in service day for the kids. Naturally the mister, who was due to be off, has been called into work on a ‘rest day’. Are the kids old enough to look after themselves? Absolutely. But it’s Friday 13th in the year 2020 so I’m taking no chances.
All the above are valid enough reasons but if I’m honest there might be one more. I never thought myself particularly vain. My best friend used to despair at me going clubbing in trousers and gutties whilst she wore sky-scraper heels and a skirt the size of A5 paper. My inability to walk in anything higher than a flip flop was legendary and on the odd occasion I wore heels they were abandoned in the corner of the dance floor. So it surprises even me that I’m reluctant to go out because of the nick of my sore face. I currently sport an eye and mouth more fitting in a scene from the movie ‘Fightclub’ than a cake baking mother of three.
Current Covid restrictions can confirm there are few licences premises open to facilitate a rumble so it’s definitely not due to a bar scrap. Nobody turned Hulk and finally snapped after one of my sarky comments.
Instead this round of chemo has had a go at my eye and mouth, leaving me looking like I’ve had a smack in the face. OR that I’ve tried to walk in heels again and face planted with my renowned poise and grace.
No, it’s not Santa…
Suddenly face masks are a blessing rather than something I have to add to remember alongside all the things when leaving the house.
Therefore I’m hiding. Hiding and hydrating. Hiding and hydrating and slathering my poor face with every brand of cream we have in the house.
Today’s trial lotion is a medicated tube of white cream. It would actually be a shame to leave the house while using this one. It’s mid-November. My winter coat is bright red. I have a big belly. Adding a white chin might be a step too far for any local children who could want to know if I think they’ve been naughty or nice.
I’ll stay inside for now thank you very much.
Biggest kid’s a diver now
This means I can avoid getting in the car with the biggest kid. Who has passed her test (YAY) and proves to be an excellent driver (double YAY). I have, however, still not accepted I am old enough to have a precious first born who is of the age to buy herself a car and DRIVE. Maybe if I’m not WITH her IN the car, people might believe it’s a younger, prettier me and not this swollen, red version!
So, littlest kid and I are comfortably set up in our work-dining space. Just us two gals diligently working away. Littlest with her homework. Me with my two laptops and a mobile phone to facilitate the bazillion to do list tasks.
She has just announced that I remind her of a superhero side kick. How lovely is that? Thank goodness for her. We have a quick discussion about how important support is for superheroes. Who might we both be? She would be kick-ass Shuri from Black Panther and I would be the one from Spiderman. I’ll take that! Spiderman’s Mary-Jane? Oh wait. Not M-J…… Okay then who is Spidey’s side kick, is it even MY name after all? It’s Ned… I am in fact Ned.