Fuschia! Splendid isolation with husband and son!
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Last Friday, after cancelling a year's work in 30 minutes, I arrived home vaguely "fuschia-ed ".
There's nothing chardonnay and hot chips can't fix, I thought.
Last week was really very weird, especially when I travelled some distance to avoid my usual supermarket.
I felt slightly crazed, until another city friend said she'd done the same.
Our dirty little supermarket secret shared, my friend and I discussed how we might survive months of social isolation WITH OUR HUSBANDS AND (ADULT) SONS.
I didn't have to wait long.
By late Monday, I arrived at our home, which I have rebranded to The Overlook Hotel from The Shining.
My day had started with an 8am meeting, followed by an afternoon that yielded the reality of navigating our workplace safely through the monsoon of this virus.
Dear reader, it was then I realised that it was only day one.
(To enhance the whole experience, were the handy little "pings" from my phone; responses to an ad on Gumtree.
Life and Death in the Times of Gumtree seemed like an appropriate title for Monday.)
At home, the men had the look bad boys get.
Looks that said "he did it".
Or, "Here's Johnny".
Or even, "I'm gonna hurt ya".
Son had learned he would be working from home ... ongoing.
Husband - who these days is mostly home on the range (alone with Spotify and sudoku) - had the look of a boy suddenly expected to share his Christmas cricket set with his younger brother. Think Jack Nicholson on 'roids.
Dear reader, I don't think they were playing nice.
Upstairs and beds were unmade, dishwasher was still stacked, the washing machine had the wobbles, and ... you get the picture.
I blame Germaine Greer.
This feminism crap has a lot to answer for.
Back in the day, it would have been me at home, barefoot, doing those jobs, quickly and quietly with my friend, the radio.
All work done and dusted in time for a late morning cup of tea, a gingernut and little snooze.
Now we've got "the feminism" and the men have taken over the washing machines and all the other household machines.
They leave housework till "after", "later", or whenever they think they can get it done before the missus comes home.
I came home and found two men with raised, angry eyebrows, pointed at each other. Like: "It was his fault".
Wait! Before they change the locks, I have to say it's not their fault.
It's "the feminism".
(BTW did you see the queues at US hardware stores to buy guns? Not a woman to be seen ... just sayin').
I decided my time might be better spent upstairs, meditating with Bruno and writing this column.
By 8pm, husband and son had put on the L plates and taken the cone of silence out for a few quality hours of driving practice.
Dear reader, it was then I realised that it was only day one.
Going to the office is looking appealing and perhaps now isn't the right time to re-read The Road, Love in The Time of Cholera or even Bill Bryson's The Body.
I'm leaning towards a little Jonathon Livingston Seagull or My Family and Other Animals, where Gerard Durrell somehow manages to encapsulate us all quite accurately.
No doubt, dear reader, next week when I come upstairs to my favourite blue chair, in my very favourite corner under the dormer window that glimpses St John's cupola, the week passed will have taken more turns than the Sideling.
I hear footsteps. The driving practice is done and this column written. Stay safe.