Stephen went to work today. I got up at half past six to make him scrambled eggs on toast, even though Toby and Beatrice were still asleep. I don't think he even noticed I was there. He had his head buried in a pile of papers and his right hand glued to his BlackBerry. Men don't grow up, it's just that the nature of the papers and the item glued to the right hand that change. Toby's going to be the same. The other day, I asked him if he needed to go to the toilet and he replied airily, 'No, Mummy, I'm just playing with my willy.' He's only three. There is no hope.
Anyway, Mum came round for lunch. And that meant that, for the first time since Christmas Eve, I had a chance to do some unencumbered housework. First, I walked around tidying up. Two hours later, having put away nothing that was actually mine, I hoovered and dusted, and then, feeling virtuous, I tackled the bathroom. And as I was coming downstairs, dreaming of having a cleaner in the way my friend Sarah dreams about handbags (except my friend Sarah actually buys the handbags), the contents of the bathroom bin escaped through a split in the bin liner and cascaded down the stairs.
First I went to the kitchen, fetched a new bag and put the kettle on. Then I returned to the stairs to harvest the debris. Cotton wool pads smeared with expensive-smelling lotions (Sarah). A collection of receipts and old Post-It notes (Beth, who always uses a stay at our to sort out her purse). Several strings of dental floss (Ruby, who's obsessed with dental hygiene). Hundreds of scrumpled tissues (Queen Victoria's had a cold and believes that one should only blow one's nose in the bathroom). And a pregnancy test.
A used pregnancy test.
A pregnancy test with a blue cross in the window.
I took it all out to the bin and then made some tea.
'Anything wrong?' Mum asked.
'I don't know,' I said. And it's true. Something's either very right or very wrong. Pregnancy tests are like that. The thing is, very right or very wrong for whom?
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