Many, many years ago, I had another life. Not one so far back as AD or BC...more like LBC (Life Before Children) when the first day back to work after a great holiday was just the worst thing you could do to yourself. I can clearly remember having the post-holiday blues until Thursday, when it was nearly the weekend, and only then would I crawl out of the deep pit of despair which was called 'Not Being on Holiday Anymore'.
But my, how things change. Now I have many children dipping in and out of the house, the thought of going back to work after a holiday or the weekend cheers me up no end. At last I can get away from the piles of washing and ironing which seem to procreate on my laundry floor. I don't have to look at the small pile of crumbs where toast met its maker on the kitchen worktops. Nor do I have to fight my way across war zones (bedrooms) to find a glass.
Leaving the house yesterday morning for my first day back after the WWW (Wet Welsh Week) I was almost giddy with the excitement of getting back to Binland, catching up with my friends and seeing what the two boys I look after had been up to in my absence. I've spoken about Master B and Master P before; of course, now one of them has started reading this nonsense, I might have to be careful what I write....but on the other hand, why bother? So coming back into my office yesterday morning, there was the obligatory pile of paperwork waiting to be posted out. I secretly call this their CBA pile (work it out for yourselves) and it was the first job of the day.
'Would you like a cup of tea?' asked Master P. This is what I like about working with the two of them. There is a smattering of respect as I am old enough to be their mother, and when you couple this with a bit of healthy fear, it makes for a smooth running office.
An hour later, Master B gets into the office (stuck in traffic apparently...) and what's the very first thing he does? Oh yes, he makes me a cup of tea.
Why can't I get this level of service at home I wonder? On occasions, there is a 100% increase in the number of 18-26 years olds in the house who know about my fondness for a cup of PG, and yet I always have to ask, nag, cajole or even resort to violence before I can get one.
Going back to the boys, Master B is heading off somewhere hot with his friends to visit a city renowned for its culture and beauty. He tried convincing Master P and me that it was going to be a more mature time away this time, but I know what will happen.
It will probably involve a badly spelt tattoo, sunburn and three days drying out when he gets back home. How do I know this?
I'm a mother. It's my job to know these things...