We are sitting in the front row of the school hall next to Olly Murs, Davina McCall and Oritsé Williams from JLS. They are here to judge the talent show. In some extraordinary way both our children have got to the final, and in a blatant pushy way we have managed to secure front-row places.
I am so nervous that my heart is jamming an intense, slightly scary, beat. After my son’s stand-up comedy routine, Olly declares that he has a great future. I look over his shoulder and think that I see the word “magnificent” scribbled next to his name, but it could actually say “mediocre” or “maddening” or “mildly entertaining”.
When it comes to the actual unveiling of the winners I think I could very easily throw up in Olly’s lap. And then Oritsé announces that our son is the winner. It’s a beautiful moment and we skim on a high for a few hours, united as proud parents, really pleased that we married each other.
It’s back to reality on Monday morning. After a break of about a year, my husband has returned to share my study. He was working downstairs in a room that can’t really be defined — part dining area, part play area, part clothes drying area, that is topped off by a huge silver fridge.
The room has a conservatory-style roof and he says he was too cold there. He sat there in winter wearing a coat and hat, stoically refusing to move. Now spring is here, he has decided to join me.
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He is speaking too loudly on the telephone, moving things around, asking me annoying random questions. To say that he was distracting me would be a gross understatement. He promised to make the study two separate areas.
I imagined two distinct rooms, but there’s just a bookshelf between us. Before he moved in, “the study” tripled as a cat bedroom and children’s playroom. The cat is holding on to her spot. She likes to sleep on a hairy pillow that’s piled up high on several boxes. It means that she can see the goings on in our street — the urban foxes, the fat-cat gang. My husband tries to change it all by dismantling the boxes and flinging away the hairy pillow.
We have a little row about the cat’s territory, which I defend, reinstalling the hairy pillow to its rightful spot.
He then calls me disorganised for keeping my receipts in a big box and mixing up the tax years. He says that the box is too big and it’s clogging up the room.
We have another boring, slightly heated discussion and I wonder if I could put a desk in the bathroom and work from there.