Well you'll be pleased to know that the husband eventually DID come back from Glastonbury...but not until precisely five days and nine hours later. I won't get into the state of him, for it would be unkind, but you do the maths: almost six days with no shower, a mud-fest followed by a heatwave, too many ales, a diet of 100% fried and processed food, and next to no sleep. Ummm...yeah. Sexy.
Anyway, once he unceremoniously deposited his giant filthy backpack full of mud-encrusted filthy clothing onto our clean dining room floor, he promptly fell asleep and the monsters and I stood looking at this patriarch of ours with a mixture of incredulity and mild aversion (well the newly grown comedy beard wasn't helping).
At any rate, he's been home for a week now and things have settled into...into chaos if I'm being honest. What momentum we had for settling back into our lives has been exchanged for two giant helpings of apathy and frustration.
For one, we simply cannot imagine how the contents of all these packing boxes once fit into our home...I mean honestly! Having used up every available inch of storage space, those possessions of ours not lucky enough to find a home during the over-zealous, caffeine fuelled first few weeks (when we actually gave a toss) ..now sit forlornly in uncomfortable corners, staring miserably at us each time we pass, knowing that they have either found their permanent resting place out in full view of the monsters who will no doubt trash n' destroy OR they'll be given to the local charity shop in a moment of uncontrollable madness.
But that's not the biggest problem. The reason for our ever increasing facial stress lines and poor sleeping patterns, are the monsters. They are B.O.R.E.D. They tell us this several times a day, every day. They let us know that we are not living up to our roles of 'Super Duper Adventure Happy Clappy Play Makers' and are failing them miserably.
After 16 months of frolicking in sand, monkey forests and swimming in warm tropical waters, a couple of Commons, CBeebies, and our outdoor terrace just ain't cutting it. It doesn't matter how many ice lollies or salt n' vinegar crisps you throw in. Unless the 'Aunties' are involved, London life just isn't doing it for them.
Of course every other four and seven year old in the country are currently sat in stuffy classrooms learning their sums and singing silly songs about strings and so forth. But ours are following the husband and I around the house little determined little shadows, moaning, complaining and admonishing the husband and I for not being entertaining enough. They have unlearned independence. They think that we are here to amuse them and that the four of us should remain an inseparable, tight, family unit of four every hour of every day. (Even as I write this they are squeezed onto the master bed beside me, having ignored my pleas not to turn on the telly, and are engrossed in a loud episode of Scooby Doo, their small little feet curled into my thighs...)
Well think again little ones. If you haven't quite caught the looks of panic, fear, despondency and downright frustration on your Mama and Dada's faces as of late, look again. We are on the pathway to 'Lost'...having stopped for a brief time in 'Losing It', and a heck of a long way from Paradise.