Nowhere to hide

I like to hide in my ensuite. I read magazines, fantasise over Boystown Lottery brochures and take long showers. Sprog 2 – aka The Mummy Homing Pigeon – has a sixth sense about when I’m trying to escape my familial obligations. I was in the shower yesterday when I heard her special method for opening the ensuite door – pulling it shut before opening it. My heart sank, just a tiny bit. She walked in with her Pinocchio puppet and asked me to “make a window” in the shower screen steam so she could do a show for me. One minute into the show she announced she needed to do a poo, pulled down her dacks and plonked herself on the loo. “Go downstairs!” I said frantically. “There’s no toilet paper up here!” “That’s ok,” she replied, “I’ll wait here until you’re finished.” I’d just lathered the shampoo. I hadn’t planned on finishing for quite some time. The pungent aroma of Sprog poo filled the room. I sighed, skipped the conditioner and made a soggy trip downstairs for toilet paper. To compensate, I slipped off to my other favourite solo destination, the supermarket. It’s a fabulous, no-guilt hiding place when Husband’s at home. He hates shopping, so I can pretend I’m doing it as a big favour to him. I gave sugar-free Red Bull a whirl to enhance the experience. I thought it might break the vicious Diet Coke cycle. But it was disgusting, like medicine. Desperate for a caffeine hit, I choked back half the can before admitting defeat and ditching it behind the zucchini display. It would possibly taste better with a shot of vodka in it, but I just can’t bring myself to go there again. The supermarket sans Sprogs on the other hand … wish I was there right now.  

TONIGHT’S MENU: The sausages finally get a look in.