It’s hard work being a house husband

I’m currently sitting on top of a brownie point mountain. Caroline has departed for a two-week tennis freebie in Barbados, leaving me holding the fort. I have three teenage boys to take care of and a very small dog. That means getting them up for school every morning, emptying and loading the dishwasher, walking the dog, doing quite unbelievable amounts of washing, and preparing endless meals. I don’t know how she does it!

To be fair, she doesn’t do it all, because I usually do some of it. And while she has a job, it’s only part-time, whereas I spend at least 60 hours a week doing paid work. So having to combine that with being a house husband is killing me. I fear my three sons will have to become ‘latchkey kids’, although that won’t be easy because only one of our front door keys works after our last visit from the local burglars (which, this being Acton, was about three weeks ago). The bastards forced the lock and I haven’t had time to mend it. At least I don’t have to drive the boys to school. Their bikes have long been stolen, but I’ve opened Lime Bike accounts for all of them so they race to school on those, screaming like banshees. They can cover the two miles in about eight minutes.

The dog is more of a burden, in fact. Mali, a three-year-old cavapoochon, is bereft without her mistress and needs constant reassurance that she hasn’t been abandoned. At night, she trots down to my shed and scratches on the door and insists on sleeping on my bed. Occasionally, I’ll wake up with a start to find her staring at me from a few inches away, perhaps anxious that I’ll disappear as well.