It’s 7.30pm on a Saturday night. Usually, my wife and I would have just completed the marathon that is kids’ tea and bedtime – always a mixture of loveliness and hideousness in pretty much equal measure. This time of the day tends to involve picking fishfingers up off the floor, slowly emptying the bath of 52 different plastic toys, or having a debrief on what the reasons might be for our son freaking out at the presence of a leek on his plate, or our daughter suddenly deciding that the world has come to an end because her Peppa Pig cutlery is still in the dishwasher.
But tonight, the children are staying with the grandparents, the house is calm, and we can drink gin and play our own music and not watch Iggle Piggle making a tit out of himself in the Night Garden yet again. The problem is, I think we’ve forgotten what normal, grown adults do on a Saturday night. We used to be able to relax, have a drink, and get ready to go out. But now, four-and-a-bit years on from having kids, my wife is currently busy making chutney as a Christmas present for our son’s teacher (she probably hates the stuff), while I reply to work emails and mess about on Twitter.
This has to stop. NOW. Time for another gin, and dinner in a really nice restaurant that doesn’t have any highchairs, AND A LIE-IN IN THE MORNING. A full eight hours of blissfully uninterrupted sleep is such an unbelievably exciting prospect, there’s a real risk I won’t be able to sleep tonight.