Sunday was a good day. Baby had her last ever Little Dippers (of which more later) and we went round some nice independent shops and some horrible chain stores, then I met Mrs S and Boy for lunch in a local Japanese. There we discovered that Boy can eat his own weight in salmon and Baby likes prawn tempura like she likes wanton destruction. We came home and there was stew in the oven for later, rugby on the telly and plenty of time for me to have an enormous tickle fight with the kids. Sounds idyllic right? Well that’s what I thought too. Mrs S went for an early night and I celebrated my Dad pride with a glass of wine. And then another. And another.
Monday morning and the alarm goes for work at 5.30am. I use my phone and can normally wake up just using the vibrate but on THIS Monday I forget to silence it and it did the full Marimba, waking up Baby who shrieked louder than the phone. Mrs S fixed me with a look that could burn the Pacific Ocean and settled Baby while I grabbed work clothes. In the dark. Here’s what I grabbed. Blue trousers. Pink shirt. Green jumper. I was going to work dressed as Harlequins RFC without the mud.
Time for a shower and shave. This all went well till I dropped the shower head reaching for the gel, making another loud bang and waking Baby back up. Then I found I had no razor blades left and I had not shaved at the weekend. While my body was rocking ‘confused rugby substitute’ my face was rocking ‘hirsute tramp’. And Baby was still screaming.
What would bring some much needed gravitas to this situation were my work shoes, the black important looking ones. Which were downstairs by the front door. Or at least I thought they were but now they were nowhere to be found. At least Baby’s howling was drowning out my screams of ‘where the FUCK are my black work shoes, the ones that bring much needed gravitas to difficult situations’. I looked everywhere. Under the TV cabinet. Behind the sofa. Round the back of the fridge. In the cupboard under the stairs. By the door again. The important shoes had magic-ed themselves off somewhere like Paul Fucking Daniels.
At this point Mrs S and Baby got up.
Baby looked like a Cheshire Cat at a Whiskas eating competition. Mrs S looked like she’d spent all night in a bad Dubstep club. It was not a happy reunion.
Still at least I could go in to the bedroom and look for my black shoes. These were (and still are) missing. But I did find my old brown ones, thus completing the look of ‘colour blind vagrant’ rather nicely. With 2 minutes till I had to leave for my train there was no time to change. I left, walked down the street and suddenly felt, heard and smelled the unmistakable squelch of solid shoe on squishy dogshit.
I had gone from Daddy Cool to John Terry. From Lord Coe to Eddie the Eagle. From pigeon to statue. From King of all I surveyed to a fucking shambles.