Janet Christie: ‘Make me some scrambled egg – it’s your job’

At last they’re going away on holiday with their Other Parent. I’m delirious. I’ve dreamt of this all year, blinked back tears and thought, there will come a time when they’re not here, just keep going.

Two whole weeks of bliss. Just me and Biggie Smalls. No cooking, cleaning, shouting until I’ve upset myself, the big shop reduced to cat food and booze.

The night before, Youngest Child is no bother. Outfits chosen, nail polishes selected, book and teddy packed and she’s off round the corner to her dad’s.

The boys, on the other hand, are still here at midnight. Middle Child had resumed painting the kitchen, desperate to finish before he goes.

“So, how much did you say you’d pay me?”

I hide in my bedroom, dreaming of the gin in the inaccessible kitchen.

Eldest finds me. “Those joggers, have they been washed and dried? And my sleeping bag from TITP, has that been done? And can you make me some scrambled egg – it’s your job, after all.”

That’s it. I throw them out, slam the door and lock it. Then feel bad. I miss them.

Next day my mobile rings. It’s Youngest, texting.

“We’re in the car, queuing for the ferry. Everybody’s shouting and swearing. Phone and tell them off.”

I switch off my phone. I’d hate to undermine their Other Parent.