‘The what?’ I asked, handing him a plate of toast. He immediately stuffed in half a slice, so I had to wait for him to answer.
‘It’s Friday. We need to bring in Roman food for the Roman Day picnic.’
‘Why are you only telling me this now?’
‘It was on the letter!’
I swapped Isla’s plate for a bowl of cereal. She dipped her spoon in and let the contents dribble back into the bowl, face contorted as if I’d handed her a bowl of maggots. ‘What letter?’
‘I gave it to Grandad on Wednesday.’
‘Well, he never passed it on to me.’
‘But I need some Roman food! I’ll get a negative point for Rabbit table if I don’t bring any!’
‘I don’t want this, it’s disgusting,’ Isla said. ‘I want Roman food! Why does Finn get Roman food and not me?’
‘You don’t even know what Roman food is,’ Finn retorted.
‘Please, enlighten us, because I don’t have a clue,’ I added, searching the cupboards frantically for something to put in packed lunches.
‘Well, I don’t know, do I? That was part of the homework,’ my son scoffed. ‘You’re the adult. You should know.’
At that point, the patio door slid open and Toby stepped in, a screaming, red-faced Hazel with him.
‘Any coffee on the go?’ he asked, slumping into a chair, which, as per the law of babies, only made Hazel scream louder. ‘We’ve had a bummer of a night. I think the fridge might have conked out. It was squeaking and rattling and then an hour ago sort of just stopped.’
Isla dived under the table, hands over her ears and knickered-bottom poking out, which Finn of course found irresistible not to boot with his foot.
There were now two small children crying in my kitchen and I felt more than a little tempted to join them.
‘No, there’s no coffee,’ I snapped, while scooping Hazel out of Toby’s arms and bouncing her on my hip. ‘There’s no milk, unless you want the run-off from Isla’s rejected cereal, which she’s been forced to eat due to there also being no butter or jam. I’ll be sure to brew you a fresh pot as soon as I’ve found Isla a non-existent summer dress that isn’t covered in sour milkshake, rustled up a couple of packed lunches from fresh air and an old packet of rice cakes and created some Roman-themed food for Finn despite none of us knowing what Romans ate. Would you like me to feed and change your baby while I’m at it, or iseverything under control?’
‘Um…’ Toby’s eyes darted everywhere but at me. ‘I’ll see if there’s any milk in the cabin fridge that made it through the night.’
I was still standing there, steam tooting out of my ears, when Toby popped his head back through the patio door. ‘Finn could take in some grapes. Or olives,’ he said, before swiftly disappearing again.
Finn ran to the fridge and yanked the door open. There, at the back of the top shelf, was a jar of olives.
Best before date, seven months ago. I grabbed a plastic pot and dumped them in. None of the eight-year-olds were going to eat olives anyway. Especially if Lena’s mum had made one of her over-the-top cakes. Probably in the shape of Julius Caesar, or the Colosseum.
We made it to school a solid twenty minutes late. A week ago, that wouldn’t have felt so bad, but after three days of the new, super-smooth schedule, it felt like a stressful slide back off the wagon. Had mornings really been this draining? As soon as I got home I climbed straight in my clanky old car and headed to the nearest big supermarket. Loaded up with replacement food I couldn’t really afford, including a bottle of wine and a slab of fancy chocolate, because this was supposed to be a self-care day, I chuntered my way home.
I was now two hours, breakfast, a shower, chapter of my book and at least two mugs of coffee behind schedule. The temptation to ditch the tasks on my to-do list and blob on the sofa instead was strong, but that felt like self-pity rather than self-care. I’d start with breakfast and then decide how to salvage the precious few hours until school finished.
I was unloading the shopping when our postwoman strolled down the drive, handing me the single postcard with a sympathetic nod.
On one side, a picture of a Portuguese castle.
On the other, words that sent my stomach plummeting into the bottom of my scruffy trainers:
Having a blast while winding my way back home!
I was still staring at the postcard when the front door opened.
‘I’ll get those,’ Toby said, striding out and grabbing all six bulging carrier bags. ‘You, follow me.’
Feeling too defeated to put up any resistance, I traipsed after him into the kitchen.
