Tuesday - Cat Poo on the Stairs

Rows: 2
Coffees: 1 (V.Good)
Voice Decibel Level: 125 (not good harpy level reached…must do better)
IQ Level: Dr Tanya Bryan

One day, when Teenagers have gone off to University and I have sold the business and moved down to the south coast to write for a living (cue dream sequence), life will have no angst. My life won’t be a series of negotiations to try and get people round to my way of thinking (which is, of course, the only way we should all work, rest and play). The bins will not be so full the effluent spews over to the kitchen floors, the recycling will be done by fairies, towels will not accumulate in mouldy bathrooms, milk will be bought, Kid (of the non goat variety) and Employee droppings will not be scattered over Office or Home, and life will be one great exercise in calm and contentment. I wish.

Last week, as I trudged up the garden steps at seven pm, laden with my traditional post work Waitrose top up, I noticed a perfect cat poo gleaming in the moonlight. With hands full and not wanting to soil my shoes I left it as an experiment to see how long it would take for someone else in my household to remove the offending excrement. A week later it’s still there. With half a foot print on it. I presume the rest is trodden into a carpet inside. Sighing, I concede and wash the cat poo off with a saucepan of hot water. I stomp back to the house, having once again been the only person to notice. Or so I thought. Husband, Daughter and Son are seated at the breakfast bar – looking querulously at my saucepan.

‘What’s the saucepan for Mum?’ says Son.
‘I was rinsing a cat poo off the stairs.’ I reply.
‘Yeah I saw that.’ said Son.
‘Me too.’ says Daughter.
‘Me three’ said Husband.

In the explosion that followed, I explained in no uncertain terms, that as bacon winner, keeping the family in the manner to which it had become all too accustomed, demi-Delia, provider of all evening meals AND social worker in chief, it would be appreciated, thank you-very-bloody-much, if there is a cat poo on the stairs that some other bugger would clean the bloody thing off without waiting for muggins here to do it! Before taking my next breath the whole family headed for cover whilst I clashed saucepans like a percussionist to underline my furore.

Next day in The Office we’d run out of print cartridges on the main printer.
‘Yeah I noticed that.’ said Office Manager.
‘Me too.’ says Controller.
‘Me three.’ said Marketing Assistant.

I entitled my email tirade to all staff ‘Cat Poo on the Stairs’.

MD’s are do-ers. Doing a lot means your associates whether family or work based tend to rely on that fact. Plus we like things to be done our way. And isn’t it easier sometimes, just to do a task than ask three times to have something botched? Particularly when Work or Home seems to function on a ‘There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza’ basis. And we wonder why we potter along in a state of borderline exhaustion.

However, out of every outburst I tend to have a stroke of genius (if I do say do say so myself).

The next day kids were presented with a Meal Rota – Son to cook Monday, Daughter Tuesday, Husband Thursday, MD rest of week. Finally, after seventeen years of trying to be Supermum, I conceded that by doing everything I was creating a family that was doing little. They could start by helping with the evening meals.

‘But we can’t cook!’ they chorused.

With that, I lobbed them a copy of Delia’s Bible and slunk into the study. Thirty minutes later there was a meal of sorts, a just about edible offering. Teenagers and Husband were pleased with their contribution, as was I, and although the pasta leaned on the sushi side of al dente, we sat and munched through their creation with pleasure.

In The Office the next day, a functioning printer and a plethora of emails from all the staff saying ‘point taken’ greeted me. In twenty-four hours, I had masterfully negotiated, illuminated and resolved the Family and Employee apathy. Parking my car on the drive at home that night I felt smug at my management mastery. I stepped out of the car triumphantly, placing my Jaeger heels squarely on another perfect cat poo.