I'd like to hunt down that fundamental rule of physics which states that one hour of time spent in the office equates roughly to half a day spent at home during the hols. Everyone returns to work bemoaning this fact and therefore there must be a hitherto undiscovered (or at least, unexplained) branch of quantum physics to explain this curious and deeply irritating phenomenon. If any of you Brian Cox-alikes out there want to have a stab at it, please be my guest, and while you are about it you could also check out why it is so damn difficult to get a good night's sleep the night before going back to work. Kthx.
My return to work goes something like this:
Do lates on the yard a little earlier than normal the night before, giving time to (a) prep suit etc, and (b) have an early night in view of lurgy which has kindly surfaced to add that special touch to my last day of liberty :shakes fist at sky:. Feeling if not ahead of the game, at least fairly on track, I then go off to bed early and am making cute snuffly noises by 10pm, snug in the expetacation of a good night's sleep to help overcome said lurgy. Not wanting to give Sid said lurgy, I have repaired to the den on the second floor. Excellent. Only to then be awoken at 2:49am precisely to a wild rattling of what I suspect to be the attic door, located just outside the den, keeping step with the howling gale that is blowing about the homestead. Mentally refusing to contemplate getting up to investigate, I toss and turn, trying to get back to sleep to no avail at all and, eventually, giving in to small cries of distress issuing from the transitional cells that line my unfeasibly small bladder, I get up and make my way to the bathroom whilst the gale howls about the house and the attic door rattles alarmingly.
But wait! Is that the sound of a cat in distress? I loiter on the landing, listening with the straining ear of one who would not see any of her cats in distress under any circumstances but who really, really doesn't want to have to go all the way down the stairs at this ridiculous hour in the morning when there is a gale blowing around the house and I need to get up in two hours. Moments later I realise Sid has fallen asleep with the TV on so, suitably relieved, I crawl back up to the den, taking care not to loiter beneath the attic door (which is partly ajar).
I know, I think, I'll read for a bit, that should do it. But no. I cannot quieten my mind from going over and over all the things we have to do this week, this month, this year. Arses then, I tell myself, I'll try to stay awake for as long as possible. This normally works a treat in all but the most exceptional of circusmtances, so I'm confident that snuffly noises will soon be issuing forth from under the den door any moment now.
But no. By now I am being consumed by that cloak of irritation and increasing desperation of one who knows she must get up very soon, who really needs to sleep and yet cannot. Bollocks then, the only thing for it is to read some more. Finally fall asleep somewhere in the region of 4:45am, just in time for the alarm to go off at 5. Marvellous.
Nothing for it then but to haul my outraged frame out of its treacherous pit and begin morning doings, for tis Noodle's day off and am on morning duty. Downstairs, greet the smalls, let the dogs out and make myself a coffee. Tea just won't do it after a night like that. Don woolly hat and coatage sufficient to combat the howling gale and step out into the breach, noting as I go how rain is blowing horizontally across the yard and the wind is practically strong enough to whip my feet from under me. Thank dawg for the extra ballast I've accrued from lapsing my gym doings over the hols, or I might have been somewhere over Northern France before I knew what was occurring.
Pausing only to remark to myself how the yard is strewn about with brooms, skipping out buckets, haynets and other equipment which normally has the grace to sit quietly at its appropriate station, I feed the boys, top up haynets and stagger across the yard with a wheelbarrow full of haynets and breakfast for the mums and babies, fully expecting them to all be huddled in the shelter, as they usually are in the event of any inclemence, and indeed how they remained even during the last howling gale which tore sheets of onduline up from their pile and scattered them liberally about the place, including up against the fence next to the shelter.
Mommy Johnson mode swings into action and there's nothing for it but to venture out across the field, thinking about how there's nothing on earth I'd rather be doing at 5:15am on a disgusting Tuesday morning than tramping across a sodding field, practically being torn limb from limb by a capricious wind, looking anxiously for my herd. And there they were, huddled in the corner next to Q, as they always do in the event of anything untoward, the very picture of equine misery picked out in the glow of torchlight. With a bracing cry of "come on you buggers", I turned back for the shelter and they all trooped in after me.This was not a morning to divvy them up into mums and toddlers to make sure everyone got only their apportioned ration of grub; no. Just get on with it so we can all go about our business and you can get into the shelter and dry off. I pile in with the haynets, skip out, check them over by torchlight and repair back indoors having closed them in to their all weather area, only to find that one of the dogs had done a protest poo right in the middle of the kitchen. "You bastards!" I yell, by now near breaking point, and schlep off to take a very hot shower, but not before shaking said wadded poo in Franklin's face, knowing full well it was him wot done it.
Having congratulated myself on making it through the garden in my suit without getting too muddy, I drive out past the shelter, noting as I go how everyone is charging about after the fashion of very agitated horses in a high wind. Argh. What if they injure themselves charging about? Nobody will be up for hours. Argh! But I don't want to leave them outside in that if they're not going to use the shelter. And Argh! I'm now suited and booted and as such ill-equipped for an equine rescue mission after a night of heavy rain. Park the car outside the gates, switch it off and go and stand there for a few minutes to watch, in the howling gale with rain still blowing horizontally across the yard. Fortunately they settle almost immediately, and I am able to leave the homestead unmolested by further indecision.
Arrive at work at 7:30am, and go to a day's work, consoling myself with the fond notion that I could maybe leave at 3:30, what with only having had a half ration of sleep and being still lurgified. Ops meeting at 2: well that needn't be a biggie, it's bound to run on a bit but I'll schlep off after that. Except that just before the meeting, a call in from the Help Desk issuing further mewlings of distress based on the fact that they were being beseigned by students unable to login, further to a pre-Christmas AD rollout in our computer labs. Argh! Argh! So we formulate a plan to combat this and we all go into crisis mode, dealing with our allotted tasks according to our roles and skillsets. Finally managed to get off about 4:15, having checked that I could be of no furtther use to anyone, with one last hurrah in the form of a story of cheese making from the boss to finish me off.
Get home to find that Sid has my lurgy after all and the dogs haven't been out as a result. Rather than risk a further protest poo, I decide to throw caution and most of my good sense to the wind, and take the bastards for a walk.
Sitting quietly on the sofa now trying to calibrate by how many extra degrees my throat is now throbbing, and marvelling that it could and probably should be a lot worse after all that. What ever else it may be, it is certainly never boring.
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