I need to stop working at weekends. I spent all day Sunday drafting proposals and writing a piece for a magazine. It was baking outside and the world and all its wives seemed to be having a lot of fun.
It was my son’s 18th, so I attempted to organise a family meal out in the evening. It is impossible for us to go out en famille as somebody always digs their heels in and refuses to tag along.
This time it was the 15-year-old who claimed to be feeling sick and then proceeded to eat a box of breaded prawns, half a bag of oven chips and various biscuits etc whilst we were out trying to celebrate with our eldest and youngest.
My husband was grumpy as he’d been shuttling a wheelchair around the M25 for his elderly father, the youngest was tearful as she’d had a row with the middle child and as for the birthday boy – he just wanted to bolt a burger and chips. Conversation was NOT on the menu.
It wasn’t what I’d call a rip-roaring success, but the newly turned 18-year-old reminded me that it was my version of what he wanted on his big day – not his. True.
Another example of trying too hard to do the wrong thing. When will I ever learn?
Cash is just crazy about me.