I’ll never write that novel – but my daughter might

My children hate me this week. Daddy is away, and they talk about his reign (a benign dictatorship, vs my despotocracy)  wistfully, like it was the Elizabethan Golden Age. ‘No one shouted when Daddy was here.’ ‘When Daddy was here, we always had sweeties.’ My daughter is a particularly meticulous grudge-storer. She would be recording my every misdeed in her Hannah Montana Secret Journal if only she could hold a pen the right way up. No doubt she’ll turn out a nice line in middle-class misery memoirs in 20 years’ time: ‘Please, Mummy, No More Couscous’; ‘Forced to Brush My Teeth’; ‘Tears before tennis’; ‘No Hi-5 for Hannah’… You never know, the proceeds might pay for me to go into a better class of OAP care home, when she decides ‘the time has come’. As it stands, her father and I will be lucky to spend our twilight years at the local donkey sanctuary, given that we have zero savings, and he’s officially ‘job free’ as of December 14th. Santa’s sack will be a whole lot lighter this year…



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2 responses to “I’ll never write that novel – but my daughter might

  1. notwavingbutironing

    The powers that be (ie, his nice ex-boss) have thrown some scraps from the Christmas table and found some extra stuff for him to do until December 22nd. Santa will be coming after all!

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