Monday, 20 February 2012
I want to be a man
Firstly, I'm going to sit and watch the rugby all day in blissful ignorance of the fact that the breakfast things are still on the table, the washing machine has finished its cycle and the beds aren't made.
Then I'm going to pop into town for a coffee. I'll walk past the pile of letters which need posting, and I won't check the fridge to see if we need milk. In fact, I won't combine my jaunt into town with anything remotely useful, such as collecting that prescription or taking the library books back.
When I get home the post will have arrived. I'll pick it up and shuffle through it, opening the bills and placing them neatly on the kitchen worktop along with their now-redundant envelopes. At some stage, I'm sure, they will mysteriously make their way upstairs to the office to be filed.
While I'm in the kitchen I'll notice that the pan in which I cooked my eggs this morning is still on the hob. I'm conscientious so I move it to the sink. I could clean it, but instead I will leave it to soak. It doesn't need soaking, but by filling it with hot soapy water nobody can accuse me of not doing the washing up.
The children will doubtless have returned from school now and be demanding snacks and television. They will be presenting arguments of such epic proportion that my wife will have her hands full trying to contain them without the use of tear gas. I will decide that now is the time I need to retire to the downstairs loo with a book for a period of at least 40 minutes, occasionally shouting helpful comments such as, 'can't you stop them fighting? I've read the same paragraph three times now.'
Live as a man for a year? Pass me the trousers.