The teachers are striking (again) today. But only in the morning.
Which means I have the much-desired task of The Round Trips occurring more times than necessary today; to deliver the Littlest One to childcare, which is literally just around the corner from school, return home where I may deliver oldest two to their place of education some four hours later.
I will return home so that I may leave a further three hours after that to collect them all and deliver the oldest two to guitar concert practice whilst working out how to entertain littlest one for the duration of said practice.
Of course, we couldn’t have it be quite so simple as that … oh, no.
“Mum! There’s something leaking behind the fridge!” yells Monkey Boy, as I’m partway through a pre-lunch making writing project. One I’d dearly like to get finished so I can tick it off my list.
I don’t think much of it as the fridge does that thing every couple of weeks (months?) where it sounds like it’s dripping but is just preventing itself from frosting up. Whatever that’s called.
Except the drip was coming from behind the cupboards above the fridge, and dripping onto the top of the fridge and the floor via some power points on the way.
“Erm,” I say. “Oh, fuck!”
It’s really not so much a ‘drip’ as a considerable ‘leak’. It is also 7.45 and there is no way I’m going to get hold of the real estate agent at this hour.
Buckets and towels are gathered, Chippie is dropped off at childcare, where he is earlier than usual, his friends aren’t there and he gets very sad.
Race home, the drip is still going, call the agent’s office and personal mobile and am afforded opportunity to leave several frantic messages as I see my day whoosh! past my head.
I’m debating not sending the kids to school this afternoon, as I’m pretty sure they’re not going to actually be taught anything anyway, but Monkey Boy has only missed one day and doesn’t want to break his record.
Also, I want them to go to school.
Which, apparently, means ‘cakes for school for my birthday’ and decide, there and then, that if there is going to be anything to take to school for the purpose of acknowledging a birthday, then it would have to be more personal; i.e. he would be making the cakes himself.
I meanwhile, was dragging the fridge into the middle of the floor, following up my non-returned messages, attempting to get even the smallest amount of work done, and trying not to lose my nut at Godzilla’s incessant “Can I play Wii now?” which was occurring at a rate of approximately every 27 seconds, regardless of the deepness of furrows