I have woken up in a bed-ful of bunnies. Not real bunnies, though in fairness LSB was in ‘Pets at Home’ yesterday and sent me a photo of a particularly fine specimen, so could happen yet. But no, at 6.45 both children pile in. “We’re making a rabbit hammock! Put your knees up!” Bun upon bun is arranged in a line. “Chug a chug a rock star, whoooo” sings the older one on repeat. “Oh fuck me.” I whimper, feeling tangible relief that I have not the merest hint of a hangover.
Bunnies tumble as I ignore their protests and crawl in beside LSB in the single bed in the spare room. The small child flicks on the landing light and nearly blinds us. “This is like Guantanamo Bay,” I sigh. She breaks into a rousing chorus of ‘Jingle Bells.’ No, says LSB. “It’s much, much worse.”
“The library book!” I shout. It’s Monday so it’s the small child’s library day. Every week we forget one or both children’s library book. I’m not even working; how can I be so rubbish at this? We started searching last night but to no end. Their room is strangely devoid of books. “Have you taken them all downstairs?” I implore. Both shrug enigmatically. They are now sitting in a large toy box, the toys upended on the floor. “It’s a car,” they explain. “VROOM VROOM”. Good God. I hunt through the bookcase. I hunt through toy boxes. Despondently I retreat upstairs. “You’ve got this,” I tell myself. “You can, and will find this frigging book with the hedgehog on the front.” Suddenly it dawns on me. I open their Ikea kitchen and find it amid a pile of hardbacks.
I hold it aloft as I enter the kitchen. LSB wordlessly pours me a cup of coffee. His stubble makes him look lupine in the half-light. “Morning my love,” I say, giving him a kiss.
