Open Writing

I see husbands at a Birmingham engineering firm are demanding extra time off work to help with baby. They have the full support of their union, who say they should have two weeks’ paid leave to help mother back on her feet again. I’ll vote for that.

And what about another extra week before the holiday to help with the preparation, and to stop mother collapsing on the sands in an exhausted heap the moment they get there?

Due to bad planning on someone’s part our pre-holiday week happens to fall during a school holiday week. Instead of the quiet time I blissfully envisaged, with me calmly packing the cases, and coping perfectly with all the usual last-minute catastrophies, I find an excited committee of ‘advisers’ surround me. I have developed a desperate need for Dad!

A doctor once confided that the week preceding the six week’s school holidays always brings a rush of mums crying ‘Help.’ Pardon my bad mood, but if we ever do manage to pack all this lot into all that little, then come Saturday morning we are off.

I read in my morning paper that a swarm of stinging fish have already arrived and are hidden in the sand happily awaiting our arrival.

It has rained steadily ever since I replaced the woollies with cotton dresses. Proving that at least some of us have our prayers answered. Perhaps my heatwave is next on the list.

I think our dog has finally realised he is not included in our holiday plans. He is either stood in front of the television giving his soulful impression of Clement Freud, or spreading his black frame across the kitchen doorway, just as I emerge with an armful of ironing.

Our washing up rota which took longer to agree to than a wage claim has disappeared. There’s a strong odour of sabotage lingering among the greasy dishes and a mighty war rages around the kitchen sink as we all look back in anger three times a day,.

As my entertaining vocal arrangements have been banned, there is no light relief, Jimmy Young rules and it’s not OK. I am sincerely sorry he was not awarded more for the car injuries he sustained recently. He deserves an early retirement.

Naturally now the children do not have to rise early for school, they are awake and in my bed before dad reaches his shaving tackle. Searching questions, straight from the heart, start early. Ranging from ‘Can I count your wrinkles’ or ‘Why did you get married?’ to the inevitable ‘When are you getting up?’

Like a KGB grilling this painful question is repeated until the right answer is received. ‘In half an hour is tortuously reduced to ‘In five minutes.’ Then the countdown starts – one second – two seconds – until – I soar through breaking point and shriek ‘SHURRUP!’

An item on the jolly holiday fun one can enjoy, with two scarves catches my bleary eyes at breakfast. When your hair is a wet and hopeless mess, tie one scarf around your head, twist the other into a rope and tie this on top, it works wonders – it says here. After trying it I don’t know which would cause the most amusement – my impression of Lawrence of Arabia or wet, hopeless hair.

But here’s another helpful suggestion, tie one scarf around the bosom – yes – and another around the hips, like a sarong – yes. Well, I suppose I could walk about like this but would I get locked up.

Actually my sense of humour has deserted me this week. I refuse to be amused by the regular wisecracks that accompany my meals. When I bravely ask if my home-made bread is a little on the heavy side I can do without our diners falling to the ground unable to lift their stomachs.

I can also do without the weatherman and his depressing ‘Further Outlooks.’ I could even manage without the ever-loving telephone.

The other day while I was in the attic, three dragging flights up watering hubby’s hopeful boost to our economy – four frail tomato plants – you’ve guessed – the phone rang.

Accompanied by the dog and a milkbottle full of water, I fell down the first flight and managed to limp down the second arriving at the telephone just in time for the frustrating purring tone. Naturally as soon I had regained the topmost step it rang again and I ignored it, ‘But who was it I ask myself continuously.’

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THERE seems to be a distinct shortage of knicker elastic at the moment, most of ours is doing a stretch between two chairs. It’s the latest side effect of the ‘common market’ called ‘French skipping.’ Unfortunately for everyone I, also unwisely, chose this week to ‘run-in my new corselette, to the uncontrolled disgust of my daughters. But who cares, it’s quicker than dieting. In one uplifting experience my midriff concertina has been straightened out considerably. But I admit I haven’t felt quite as choked since I got the hang of the adjustable straps.

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CAREER concern is rearing its worrying head at our house just now. Our seven-year-old can’t make up her mind whether to be a ‘café lady’ or a doctor. We have a budding psychotherapist and a zoologist. Now all we need is a career for our eldest who finishes her teacher’s training course next year.

Our son always wanted to be a fireman until he discovered they put fires out and do not light them as he had always fondly believed.

But please let dads have this extra week’s holiday before the holiday. This is the last week’s holiday for me. In future I’m planning a month at least.