Working from home

I consider that I work from home. I cook. I clean. I mend things and sew Cash's woven name tapes into them. From here I make my forays into the outside world and bring back groceries, mended cars, dry cleaned suits and nursery-stimulated children. I hold the many threads of our family life in my strong, capable hands and, with deft twitches, keep us fed, warm, clothed and (mostly) on the rails. I do all this from home, and home is, as a result, a blessed, fun and welcoming place.

Stephen is working from home today, in order to spend more time with the children even though the demands of his work are becoming astronomical. As a result, I am not allowed to

• answer the telephone (it might be an important client)
• make any telephone calls (an important client might be trying to get through)
• allow the children to have even minor mishaps (children crying is not a professional background noise)
• permit any arguments (children arguing is, if anything, a less professional background noise)
• have any enquiries that might require Stephen's input (he's working, for goodness' sake, Clementine)
• give the children any clues about when Daddy might emerge from purdah and play with them (he doesn't want to make promises he can't keep).
• hoover

On the other hand, I am allowed to

• produce espresso coffee on demand
• cook and serve a full lunch in between collecting Toby at 12 and dropping Beatrice off at 1.30.
• provide a constant armed guard outside the study door to prevent intrusion by loving and curious offspring.

There are things, like wearing a pair of trousers, baking a souffle or being the President, that only one person can do at a time. Working from home, I have decided, is one of them.

Prince Charming

I was watching Disney's Sleeping Beauty with the children earlier on, and it struck me just what a collection of spineless, insignificant, characterless creations these various heirs to the throne are. In Cinderella, the man appears, dances with beautiful girls as per his father's instructions, then exits the story entirely while Cinderella and the palace staff sort things out between them. Thank the lord she had the intelligence to hang on to that glass slipper or the whole thing would have gone horribly wrong. For the palace staff, that is. Cinderella might have been better off with the dressmaking mice; at least they listened to her troubles and took independent action to help. A man who lets his valet do his courting for him isn't going to sign up for Relate sessions when things start going wrong. And Prince Philip (not the racist one with funny eyes, the fictional one whose identical twin just married Cinderella. At least I hope it's his identical twin). He muscles in on the innocent game the owl and the rabbits were playing with Briar Rose, breaks the poor girl's heart and relies on a trio of middle-aged fairies to point their wands at anything that might get him into trouble. Put the cast in leather and set the story in Soho and it'd be a whole different ball game. Except Philip can't even stick his own sword into the witch at the end.

And then - after having done nothing - they get a half-share of the closing credits.

Stephen has introduced Toby to the delights of the Star Wars Lego game on the Wii. He thinks that calling out Clem, look, it's the Millenium Falcon will prove an irresistable siren call.  In fact, it depresses me to see Harrison Ford reduced to an inch and a half of coloured plastic. I'm going to make the children's tea and brace myself for the screams and protests when I tell them it's time to stop.

And that's just Stephen.