I Love My Children But…

I Love My Children But…

My kids are my everything. But I have a series of little fantasies, of ‘if only’ scenarios that occasionally run through my head. They go a little something like this…


I would like to….

Consistently have 8 hours sleep. Ok 7.

Wake up naturally (or perhaps by the sun streaming through the window) grab a cup of tea and then drift off for a little snooze.

Have a bath without a bath-toy stuck up my arse.

Drink sun-downers on a beach from 5-7 (Screw you tea/bed time!)

Amble round the supermarket looking at all the lovely food. Not arguing about pom-bears.

Go out for lunch and have it turn into a boozy dinner.

Go out for lunch and have it turn into a messy night.

Buy the Sunday papers and read them. Rather than have them cluttering the house ’til Wednesday when I inevitably throw them out, having only looked at the pictures.

Wear clothes that don’t have access to my tits. 

Say ‘yes sure! why not?’ to the offer of a gig that night.

Live in some sort of minimalist impractical house: candles burning, expensive unwipeable fabrics. Perhaps some dangerous steps leading to to a dangerous swimming pool. And an open fire. 

Lose myself and an afternoon in a book.

Be those people casually enjoying champagne and oysters at the airport. Who are these people?

Own an expense diary that doesn’t get scribbled on .

Own a nice pen that doesn’t get hidden to avoid scribbling. And then consequently lost.

Spend a holiday working on my tan (old school).

Partake in conversations that are a) well-inform b) constitute conversations.

Try on a few a different outfits in the morning (again, old school).

Get round to buying some new knickers.


* a lot of this would never have actually happened even before kids. But, you know…

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