Obviously it was a really good idea to go out last night, it being New Year and everything. It all seemed perfect. Mum offered to babysit; I tried on my favourite dress and found that it fitted; the restaurant had a cancellation. We even managed to stay awake beyond midnight (out of choice, you understand, rather than in thrall to the domestic tyrants). We stumbled home at half past one and spent half an hour congratulating ourselves on not allowing having small children to affect our ability to party before we collapsed mid-sentence.
What we forgot to do was to programme Toby and Beatrice to stay asleep until ten or eleven o'clock this morning. Consequently I was back in the family room at half past six with a thumping headache and two merry babies who deserved better, furiously typing comments about Stephen that would probably have meant the end of our marriage had I actually posted them. I'd like to think that my failure to post was due to my generosity of spirit and great maturity.
I'd really like to think that. And so, in the spirit of my suddenly formed New Year's Resolution to treat myself as I would like others to treat me, I will think it. I am so generous of spirit that I won't mention that Stephen is still in bed now. It's a quarter to three. We're expecting friends of his to tea in fifteen minutes. I am so mature that I would get no satisfaction whatsoever from sharing with you that I have had to entertain and feed the babies entirely alone all day, that Queen Victoria (Stephen's mother) rang and had to be conversed with and that Stephen is a selfish, presumptuous slug-a-bed with no more consideration for his hungover wife than a weasel. Happy New Year.
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