After three weeks of decorating, sorting rooms out, bagging up crap and taking it to the tip, my house needs no work. At all. For at least six months, or however long it takes for the takeaway silver foil tins and strongbow cans to pile up to the point where I can't find the telly again.
And I have a week's leave. Pre-booked, in fact, precisely because I'd planned to do my spring cleaning this week, not realising that my Mum would arrive at short notice and help me blitz the place ahead of schedule.
So I have, strangely for me, nothing to do. At all. Which I'm not used to. I've spent pretty much every day of the last ten years either working, working on some wife-inspired DIY project at home, or being entertainments manager for two small children. I have none of that to do this week. It's going to be - pretty much literally - like being unemployed.
How many episodes of Jeremy Kyle does one have to watch before one starts wearing tracksuit bottoms in public, and forgetting to shave in the morning?
And I have a week's leave. Pre-booked, in fact, precisely because I'd planned to do my spring cleaning this week, not realising that my Mum would arrive at short notice and help me blitz the place ahead of schedule.
So I have, strangely for me, nothing to do. At all. Which I'm not used to. I've spent pretty much every day of the last ten years either working, working on some wife-inspired DIY project at home, or being entertainments manager for two small children. I have none of that to do this week. It's going to be - pretty much literally - like being unemployed.
How many episodes of Jeremy Kyle does one have to watch before one starts wearing tracksuit bottoms in public, and forgetting to shave in the morning?
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