Moving On
I haven’t written anything for a while, largely because life
has been humourless. The joy of exchanging contracts for the sale of Goddard Towers,
and the purchase of what people keep telling me teeth clenchingly frequently is
a fresh start, wore off with the next day’s hangover. The grim reality of the
task of disassembling eight years of life set in. I decided to face it like a
man, hired a skip and have been cracking on, with manflu, since. The Boychild
hasn’t been helping much since he doesn’t want to throw away any of Frank’s
stuff, so I’ve had to do it secretly only to find that he has raided the skip
and replaced everything. Added to this he has taken to hiding in the packing
cases Jack in a Box like. He’s also pretty miffed that next week he will be
Jack in a Box Room.
I am looking forward to a more streamlined life, as are the
little darlings. Goddard Towers is getting me down. It represents a monument of defeat. Frank and I really had no business buying this house due to our joint
inability to complete any DIY projects. He however did have a talent for
drinking and watching rugby with the best local tradesmen, so we did achieve a
bit. But only a bit.
There is going to be regime change in our new house come
next Monday. And I’m going all Blair and Bush-like and not seeking a mandate
before doing so. In fact it’s a secret and the kidlets won’t know what’s hit
them until the first attack. There’s no room for diplomacy here, no discussions
and certainly no votes. I’m not going to
have a face full of Camaronesque egg. I’ve allowed the little darlings a pretty
free reign since Frank died. I like to fool myself that letting the children stay up late, watch as much tv as they like, and eat in their rooms is
benevolence on my part. But it’s just pure laziness.
As of Monday 23rd September there will be no
pocket money without graft. There will be a bedtime, and if not adhered to Herr
Mother will remove the plugs from all electrical items. Except the
straighteners because I’m not that silly, and Eve is a bit scary. I’m expecting
a return of fire, but I hold the purse
strings, and when I set my mind to something I can be a stubborn bastard.
So please don’t give the little darlings the heads up. This week,
of all weeks, I really don’t need a pre-emptive strike. My generally barely
adequate psychic defences are at an all time low.
