Remember back in February when you thought you needed more work life balance and then March happened and now boundaries have taken a time out. How long is too long not to shower? Or dress the kids? Clean the house or leave the house? I had to fill the van up for the first time in three months this week and could not remember;

1. My card pin number.
2. Basic human to human greetings.
3. What fuel goes in my car.
4. Where the petrol station is.
5. Where the fuck my fucking keys were to get in the fucking thing in the first place.

Did remember to dig out some ‘outside clothes’ though, even put a bra on. Fancy.

A quick overview of our lockdown experience… I have jet washed everything in existence. The dogs want rid of us and I’m fairly certain I interrupted them planning a coup. We managed 3 days of Joe Wicks. Mr DD went to Jersey with work and sent me a picture of him having a pint on a marina. I’ve buried the picture with him.

Then there is working from bastard home.

I took a new job in March upping my hours from half the week to full time. Two weeks in and a global pandemic hits, well played kids. So after taking a full time job largely to avoid parenting the little crotch goblins I created, I find myself, along with the rest of the world, losing my shit.

‘Professionalism’ has been replaced with an unwelcome glimpse in to people’s actual lives. Office me isn’t actual me. Colleagues should never have to see actual me. Or hear actual me trying to reason with my offspring while in fielding an unwelcome audit and realising there are not enough snacks in all of Britannia to keep these urchins quiet for 60 minutes.

The children and the food bill are both disprortionally large compared to pre-lockdown.

Pre-lockdown my colleagues hadn’t experienced my socially awkward over sharing. In one particularly important meeting my daughter accussed me of spiking her drink with glitter, loudly and directly down my headset. I specifically remember noone asking but for some reason I kept talking and it escalated quickly (uninvited and awkwardly) to describing the effects of that time the dogs ate an excess of glitter play-doh. Then my son dropped his trousers next to me, and pissed in the dog bowl positioned under my chair.

All while trying to de-escalate the dogs’ guerilla style attack on the fat pigeons in the garden. I know they’re clearly well fed, I know Mr DD is spending an amount to rival the mortgage on bird food, I know the trees creak when they somehow manage to balance their centre of gravity and, yes Monty, I know they favour the feeder with a plinth on which they can collapse and simply shovel the over priced ‘wild feed’ in to their cake holes. But, for the love of God, can you please SHUT UP WHILE I AM ON THIS CALL BEFORE I BURN THE HOUSE TO THE GROUND.

I miss February.

I want a panini in a cafe, chips not salad.

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