Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband Read Free

whole point of me
becoming a househusband was that such things didn't
matter. However, they still do. I wish I could just find
some sort of middle ground between being Total New
Dad and Incredibly Rich Dad. The only ground I'm in
is some sort of swamp. I feel like sending Sir Roger one
of the crappy postcards of the local church and writing
'Wish You Were Here' on it, with an arrow pointing to
the graveyard.
    Just before I came up, Sally reminded me that we
have dinner with her sister Victoria next Friday. This is
fine, as Victoria is a lot poorer than us, so I like her
immensely despite her pothead vocab. Her boyfriend
Rick is some sort of 'landscape designer', who is indeed
extremely poor, so I think he may have to become my
new best friend.
    Tuesday 8 January
    Whatever is happening in Ktyteklhdfistan is getting
worse. Not that I can possibly know what is actually happening
there, because places like Ktyteklhdfistan never
appear on the news. (I doubt that they ever did.) However,
what I do know is that Sally is working increasingly
late, and when she gets home, she bashes away furiously
on her laptop. She seems muted and distant. I've never
known her like this. She also looks somewhat tired, and
I even thought I spotted a grey hair in amongst her
normally shampoo-advert-like long brown tresses.
    When I ask her what the matter is, all she can say is
that things in Ktyteklhdfistan are pretty bad and there's
a lot to sort out. She can't be more specific, which is
infuriating.
    'Surely you can tell me something?' I asked this
evening.
    She shook her head as she drained her third glass of
wine. (Another worrying development – she's beginning
to drink as much as me.)
    'Not even a little bit?'
    'Nope.'
    'Is the world going to end? Have they got nukes?'
    Worryingly, Sally paused.
    'Put it this way,' she sighed. 'The country is a fucking
mess. That's about the politest way I can put it.'
    (Oh dear. Swearing like me as well.)
    I felt a little helpless. After all, there was not a lot I
could say or do.
    'I know,' I said eventually.
    'What?'
    'Perhaps they need some management consultants.'
    Sally looked at me, wide-eyed.
    'Are you being serious?'
    'Of course not!' I lied.
    Thursday 10 January
    I'm ruing my latest 'it'll be fine'. There is no
consultancy work out there, not even for me, the great
whistleblower who saved Sir Roger's august firm of
Musker Walsh and Sloss (Consultants) Ltd. I am feeling
increasingly bitter about this, perhaps more so than
when I lost my job.
    I'm also feeling a bit guilty that I've taken this out on
Peter and Daisy. After picking up Peter from school and
Daisy from playgroup, the rest of the day was a bit of a
washout. Literally, because it was raining, and
metaphorically because everything I attempted to do
with them felt half-hearted. They picked up on my
mood immediately, and as a result, they were bolshy.
Example: painting. Normally they love painting, but
today they showed a marked reluctance.
    'Painting's boring,' said Peter after I had plonked the
paints and brushes bad-temperedly down in front of
him on the kitchen table.
    'But you like painting.'
    'No I don't.'
    Peter's reluctance was copied by Daisy, who shook
her head and went 'no' each time I tried to put a
paintbrush in her hand. Normally she is good for a
squiggle or two, but today she just flung the paintbrush
to the floor. I then told her this was naughty, and she
burst into tears.
    'Mummy!' she kept crying.
    'Mummy's at work,' I shouted.
    'I want my mummy!' started Peter.
    Gritted teeth.
    'Mummy is not here,' I said slowly.
    Cue large shouting match which saw me leave them
alone in the kitchen while I read the paper in the
living room. Or rather, I pretended to read the paper
as all I could concentrate on was the ceaseless
bellyaching.
    'Just get on and paint!' I shouted, knowing that this
would only infuriate them, but by now I was feeling
bloody-minded.
    'Mummy!'
    'I don't want to do painting!'
    'Mummy!'
    And so on. All because I had