Housewives Were Made For Days Like This

Two years ago, this nose would have been pressed up against the glass of it’s tinted office window, pretending to be working on something window related whilst dreaming of early retirement.

Instead, it was taking in long, snotty sniffs of sea air, making a delightfully refreshing change from the sprouty odour that has followed me around on toxic turbo since the doctor prescribed Chick laxatives last week.

The bright sky, glistening sea and warm sunshine made my 62 hours of labour seem all worthwhile. What’s three days of agonising horror when you’re left free to skip down to the seaside and eat ice cream whenever you please?

The promenade lights were getting a fresh coat of paint, the pyjama clad granny was energetically waving from her balcony to a non-reciprocating Chickie and I was filled with the smug satisfaction that Summer was coming and I was unemployed. How fabulous. My only potential concern being how to disguise tubby tum tums without the protective cloak of winter layering.

However, even that wasn’t enough to squish my gleeful mood, nor the can of Sprite exploding in my face at the Spar shop whilst the bloke next to me pretended not to notice as big blobs of lemonade dripped out of my nostrils.

My mood only got sweeter when Chickie threw caution to the wind and finally took some steps. Hallelujah.