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.