Wednesday – Radical Interventions

Rows Nil (V.Good)
Coffee: 6 (Bad, very bad)
Wine: 3 large glasses (hence no rows)
Voice Decibels: 30 (like a perfect harp strumming in the background)
Acting ability: Meryl Streep at Oscar winning best
Genius Levels: Einstein would be proud

I love Wednesdays. Since my new W regime (Wine only on days with a W in it – Wednesday and Weekends) it is a day to look forward to. Son is in impeccable mood as he spends day doing Art and PE, his favourite subjects, and we are spared the normal Daughter stampede as she gets a lie in. I look forward to an evening where I get to have a glass of wine whilst cooking something yummy - and the anaesthesia of my Burgundy makes Husband considerably less irritating. However, today, all is not good in the hood. An Intervention has to occur to keep the Teenagers on the straight and narrow. The Crime. Back doors are being left unlocked.

I stagger to bed, exhausted, at 10pm. My nocturnal offspring rarely concede before midnight. As they often have mates round, they are asked to lock up before they retire. Inevitably, I get up at 0500 and the back door is unlocked, once literally agape. I have asked, told, threatened and bollocked to no avail. They leave their laptops, Playstation and phones strewn around the living room – a self-service display for a would be thief. This Wednesday I’d had enough, and fuelled by my second espresso of the morning, I collected the laptops, phones and Playstation, shoving them in the under stairs cupboard before screaming in mock panic, ‘We’ve been robbed!’

I have never seen the kids move so fast. They raced down the stairs, viewing the neat but very bare lounge, with a look of abject horror.

‘Who was last to bed last night? I asked
‘We both went to bed at midnight’ they replied in unison, still scanning the room like anxious meercats.
‘Did you not lock up?’ I said, my face a perfect mask
‘No!’ they wailed and sat, head in hands mortified at their loss.

Utilising skills not used since I played Mary in a pre school nativity, I sped round the house anxiously to check what else had been stolen. Sure enough the passports were safe, the TV was still there….it’s was just their stuff that had gone. They looked shell shocked. I could keep up the pretence no longer.

‘And that…das kinder ….is what will happen if there really is a burglar’ I gleamed triumphantly, and opened the under stairs cupboard to reveal my stash.

‘Oh Mum!’ wasn’t quite what they exclaimed, once they realised my performance was indeed Act One in ‘How to Persuade Teenagers to Lock the Rear Door’. After expressions of disgust at the time of day, however, there was grudging admiration for my acting skills. And relief that their precious things were still in situ. We agreed the lesson had been learnt.

My early start meant I headed to The Office for 0600. In a rural area Employees have known to be lax on security. Alarm always on. Lock has been left occasionally. New Controller was left to lock up the night previous. I instinctively tried the door – guess what? Knowing New Controller was the first number security would be calling when the alarm went off, I simply pushed the door open and waited. 30 minutes later New Controller screams up to the Office to see me waiting in the car park.

‘Was there a break in?’ he said, a look of panic I’d had already seen once that morning, on his face.

‘Did you lock up last night?’ I asked him, blankly. He confessed, having left his leys at home, he set the alarm hoping it wouldn’t matter, just this once. I explained very calmly that if he wanted to avoid 0600 alarm calls in future he might want to remember his key.

‘Fair play’ he said, taking his jacket off, deciding to save face by starting the day early, 'Fancy a coffee?’

Funnily enough, I haven’t found the back door open recently, and the office is always locked. And instead of being pissed off, both Teenagers and New Controller have dined off the story for weeks. My stance has become the stuff of Facebook legend – the day the MD staged a break in. Genius!

I hate Mondays

Rows:1
Coffees 3
Voice Decibel Level: 90 (Level of Passing Trains)
IQ Level: Plankton

I face the start of the week with a Boomtown Rats perspective. Over the weekend, Teenagers and I have slipped out of our working week rhythm. Apparently it should take three weeks to change a habit. My Teenagers switch from functioning nine to fivers, Monday to Friday, to the human equivalent of draft excluders by Saturday, permanently horizontal. Certainly not out of bed before noon. Monday is, therefore, a rude awakening.

Daughter’s alarm goes off religiously at six. Summarily ignored by her, it wakes everyone else. Son, dragged from his sleep by the melodic yet unwelcome Jason Marz, is incensed. The upside? We are spared his alarm choice. Present retro music fad dictates this week’s alarm is Sigue Sigue Sputnik. Deep joy.
Established morning etiquette dictates its best not to converse with Son and me until we have coffee. Husband (and step-dad) is gratingly cheerful. Ignoring protocol, he is reminded that comment’s like ‘aren’t we grumpy this morning' may result in my stabbing him with my stiletto. Son glares malevolently at him from under his unfeasibly long fringe. Husband goes off to work at 0730 and a morose calm settles. Son and I – devoted breakfasters - circle around each other, like apathetic hyenas, in our ergonomically designed kitchen. We mumble more amicably as the caffeine kicks in. Ahead we hear thunder.

It certainly sounds like thunder. It’s actually the furious feet of Daughter charging from bedroom to bathroom to spare room with preparations for college akin to Kate Winslet grooming for the Oscars. Daughter charges downstairs at pace, looking like she’s just walked out of a salon; more make up than Toyah Wilcox and the third outfit of the morning. Late as usual, I scream 'Breakfast!' at her as she grabs a banana and apple from the bowl, strategically placed for just this purpose.

Son and I then have fifteen minutes of calm. We chew our breakfast in front of the news before he makes his pilgrimage to the ‘Altar of Hair Care’. Found in the ‘Communal Grooming Zone’ - home to all instruments required for our transformation into acceptable looking beings - this neutral area ensures we don’t venture in to the trepidatious boundaries of each other’s rooms. Teenager’s rooms are phenomena of Attenborough-esque fascination. The Teenager, to the uninitiated, appears clean and fragrant, yet they inhabit fetid, pungent bombsites. I decided years ago that ‘Bedrooms’ wasn’t a battle I was prepared to have. Instead, I stick a cursory head round to inspect once a week, negotiating waste reduction plans to ensure Teenagers inhabit council dump equivalents as opposed to Nagasaki. Unless there is an infestation of flies (old lunch box once forgotten), or if I am on a requisition to find an item of my clothing.

My belongings are desirable acquisitions for the Teenager. Daughter nicks suits for interviews, Son steals waterproof jacket for running. Noisy hysterics are induced when Daughter pilfers shampoo from my ensuite – a fact routinely discovered only once I have immersed myself under the lukewarm trickle of the asthmatic power shower. I dash, dripping, over the landing to retrieve aforementioned shampoo – a breach of Communal Area protocol causing looks of revulsion from Teenagers. Not dissimilar to the expression on my face when I last peered in to their bedrooms.

Eight o’clock, the house is calm and I have thirty minutes to suit, boot and go off to run my other mini empire – The Office. By nine I have my feet tucked under my desk where I parent a collection of elderly children otherwise known as Employees. Luckily eighteen years of familiarity and an employment contract, as opposed to blood ties, means there’s a civility in the office not necessarily applied at home. But the issues are all the same – someone’s desk looks like a bomb has hit it, another has an alarm going off on his PC, driving his fellow workers mad. Office Manager is best left to ease in to his day, rather than interacting before his caffeine reaches optimum level, and Marketing Assistant has cordoned off the bathroom whilst she applies another layer of foundation. I think I’ll have another coffee.