Like Father, Like Son

Chickie was booked in at Nanna and Grandad's for a sleepover and Accountant and I were booked in at Cafe Rouge at 8pm. I'd only allowed myself to get excited about the prospect of a night out because Chickie's vital signs were good with no suggeston of pending illness that usually turned our plans for a night out into a night chasing him round with a thermometer.

Watching Chickie totter excitedly into his Nanna's arms, pulling his little Thomas the Tank Engine overnight wheely case, I almost couldn't bear to leave him. Five minutes later as he frisbied jigsaw pieces around their lounge, almost decapitating Grandad, I found the strength.

Then the phone rang. It was Accountant, his bestest sick voice proclaiming that he was on his way home. He didn't feel well. His tummy hurt. "No" I wailed selfishly, as my dreams of release from my nightly prison went poof.

Ransacking the medicine cupboard, I took out all the drugs that caused drowsiness, hoping that I could dose Accountant into a state whereby he wouldn't notice me bundling him into the boot of the car, driving him to Brighton and tying him to the chair opposite mine in the restaurant.

As Accountant hobbled through the front door an hour later, his teeth chattering for added effect, I knew we weren't going anywhere. By 5pm, Accountant, wearing his suit, shoes and coat was tucked up in bed snoring.

At the time I should have been slurping my French Onion soup, followed by Croque Monsieur and chocolate crepes, I was sat alone at my dining room table, eating fishfingers in my pyjamas.

A nappy bag landing in the hall indicated that Accountant was conscious. I wandered into the hallway, intrigued as to its contents seeing as the filler of the nappies wasn't in residence. A pair of Accountant's boxer shorts lurked within the polythene.

I didn't ask, although I had a hunch. I trudged back to my fishfingers.