12 May 2016, 8 am
I greet my children with the happy news that I am free of the shackles of the CIPA Presidency, and will now be able to spend more time at home. My daughter says: That’s nice I’m off now ’bye. My twelve-year-old son says: Does that mean we can’t have sausages for tea anymore? I say You betcha; it’s vegetables and quinoa now I’m around in the evenings. (I have only a vague idea what quinoa is, but I know it is healthier than sausages.) We then move on to more important, practical matters, to wit, the respective locations of his school uniform – and parts thereof – and his PE kit and parts thereof, which are severely lacking in clarity and sufficiency in the context of today’s school timetable. I leave this for my husband to sort: the two of them have found a way of being confused together and it probably works best if I am out of earshot. I turn instead to the tricky business of Not Doing CIPA Emails. I expect this to be quite hard, because there are a lot of people I want to recommend the militant feminist book to, but then the mother of all headaches arrives and neatly incapacitates me for the day. It feels like someone is pumping my skull full of lead, and that the weight of the lead, bearing down on my neck muscles like a car crusher, represents everything that’s worried or upset or frustrated or demoralised me during the last twelve months at CIPA. That is a whole lot of lead. It is time to retire to the sofa and be pathetic for a while.
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