I had a night out on Friday. It was odd – the ease with which I was able to slip out the door without having to orchestrate childcare, or leave a long list of instructions to a hopefully non-paedophilic infanticidal maniac on the best way to diffuse Girl Baby’s inevitable sleep tantrum. What I am trying to say is that the children have been whisked off to their grandparents for a few days, and I have been left to my own devices.
I had thought I would enjoy all this time to myself – in some ways, I have. I took a bath. I read a book. I stayed up late and slept in until the grand hour of NINE O’CLOCK this morning. And, as the title has already given away, I had a night out on Friday.
I am not one for going out much, mostly because up until recently I was married and would snuggle in at home after the children had gone to sleep with my ex. That’s not to say there hasn’t been the occasional night out with friends, but really, I just don’t do it very often. And certainly not with my holy-crap-I’m-single glasses on. Those leant a whole new, vaguely depressing light to the evening. I am too old to try and meet someone Utterly Fabulous in a pub. I don’t go to clubs, since I am not a coked-up fresher with a fondness for cochlea-destroying bass.
So there I was, watching men lurch about over women trying to prove they had the most beautiful plumage. I watched women in states of drunken disarray precariously pick their way across the cobbles in stilettos. I paid too much for watered-down drink and paid again in the morning with a crushing hangover. In fact, I spent all of Saturday huddled on the sofa with my special Hangover Kit (all within an arm’s reach):
-Two 2 litre bottles of sparkling water and a dish of pre-sliced lemons and cucumber (try it – brilliant.)
-Packet of ibuprofen
-Several tins of peaches (easy to eat; hydrating)
-Laptop, streaming Scrubs
-Assortment of pillows and duvets
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But, like all people with Stockholm Syndrome – that is to say, every decent parent in the entire galaxy – I have begun to miss my pint-sized captors. I take this a good sign that I am sufficiently attached to them, as irritating and sticky as they are. I keep thinking about the silly things that Boy Child says, or the funny little dance that Girl Baby does whenever I put Nina Simone on. All of these bucolic reveries are in stark contrast to my Friday evening, and as a single mother, I am wondering: how to I reconcile these two worlds? Just because my marriage didn’t work out doesn’t mean I am going to remain a spinster for the rest of my life. (The first person to say “Join a book group!” or some such asinine comment is getting shot squarely in the face with my shotgun.)
Is there anything that the application of a twelve-gauge shotgun can’t solve?
