19 August 2015
I am two-thirds of the way through what is euphemistically known as a “staycation”. A staycation is what happens when you wanted to go somewhere glamorous on holiday – or at least somewhere sunny – but failed to organise anything in time and couldn’t get familial consensus on The Most Rubbish Place To Drag Reluctant Children Along To. This leaves you, in my case, facing the prospect of a fortnight’s worth of day trips to Wookey Hole, Weston-super-Mare and Ye Olde Cheddar Cheese Shoppe, which are, ironically, pretty much top of the list of The Most Rubbish Places To Drag Anyone Along To. To the unbounded delight of said non-consensual family, I have therefore devoted my staycation to practising my domestic goddess skills. I have cooked a meal, for example. The starter was a medley of locally-sourced crisps and seasonal cocktails. The main course was a symphony of hand-cut pizza slices served with a red wine jus (the trick here is to serve the jus in separate glasses, so as not to make the pizza bases soggy). For the dessert, we had a trio of deconstructed cakey bits on a bed of cookie dough ice cream, lightly drizzled with guilt. Followed by Ye Olde Cheddar Cheese and Ye Olde Malte Whiskye and some shards of Weston-super-Mare rock. I think. I may have mis-remembered the last couple of courses. I have also packed up three picnics, arranged some flowers in a vase, and listened to some knock-knock jokes. The picnics were mainly cakey bits, though no one complained. The flowers were mainly in the positions that gravity seemed to want them to adopt anyway. The knock-knock jokes were mainly not jokes at all. In between bouts of being a goddess, I have done some long walks, some of which ended up taking slightly longer than my map reading skills had forecast, and drunk plenty of long cocktails, some of which ended up taking all night. The children were unimpressed by the long walks. I do not know what they thought of the cocktails, but nor do I care. I have also been very strict about not doing emails. At all. This may lead some of my CIPA contacts to ask their IT managers why their inboxes have stopped working. When I return to my own inbox next week, I am expecting to find that CIPA has been absolutely fine without me, but that a lot of people are now duly awaiting my immediate response yours respectfully. Or perhaps – it is a slim chance but it is a chance nonetheless – I will have been deposed by a Chancery Lane-shattering coup and replaced by somebody sensible and dignified. Then I would have to confess to my non-consensual family that they were about to see a whole lot more of my domestic goddess skills and my deconstructed cakey bits. There might well be consensus on their response to that.
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