Janet Christie: Mum’s the word

I’m on a work trip, pinching myself because I’m in a hotel so posh I can’t go out in case they won’t let me back in, and the best bit is … I’m on my own, no kids!

(Mummy doesn’t mean it, darlings). They’re at their Other Parent’s, or so I think until my phone rings.

“Muuuuum. Have you seen my chinos?” It’s Eldest Child.

“Your brother wore them to that party. You said he could, so no fighting.”

“Oh yeah, maybe he left them there.”

“Really? That’s nice.” I’m eyeing an amuse bouche that has arrived and not listening, in that way parents do when their children describe their dreams or recite their Christmas list, yawn, yawn.

“So are there any other chinos in the house?” he asks.

“I don’t know. But I can see a nice pair now on the man sitting next to me.” I take a picture of the man’s leg to send.

“Man? Are you not in the house?”

“No. I’m on the Riviera.”

“Riviera? As in the south of France?”

Glad he’s taking geography Higher.

“That’s the one.”

I hear him shout to his brother. “She’s in the south of France.”

“Not downstairs?”

“No.”

When I die, how long before they notice? Depends how long the clean washing lasts.