The Harem

I’m wondering if I need to add more men folk into my life?

In a fitting end to a tumultuous week as even a day off to do some Christmas shopping was tinged with the stresses of the week, I realised today that as I interacted with most of the important women in my life, I have inadvertently wound up in something approaching a harem.

P and I had made the unfortunate mistake of planning something for a particular day, which in these uncertain times is foolish to say the least, so it stood to reason that today would be the day when The Youngest’s persistent, yet not Covid-related cough (we know, we tested her), resulted in a call from school requesting that she be collected. 

Seeing as how we were a fair way down the M6 at this point, she was eventually collected by a mother fuming at the school’s dogmatic approach and stubborn refusal to accept that small children will have colds in winter. I have to say that we’re on the same page with this one, but I felt a little guilty about not collecting The Youngest myself and it played on my mind. Being treated to brunch by P helped as did a follow-up phone call – The Youngest, I hasten to add, is absolutely fine.

Shortly thereafter, and still in the car, my mother phoned for a chat – not the ideal way for her and P to speak for the first time, but hey it seemed to go well.

We arrived and had the aforementioned brunch, texting Simmo and my sister for gift ideas and spending limits, before getting some shopping done and I was impressed by P’s dedication to the task and also gift selections, which I’ll be honest, I straight-out copied. First time in a couple of years that I’ve had any assistance or outside inspiration on this front and I wasn’t about to look a literal gift-purchasing-horse in the mouth. We broke for a bit to seek out some other stuff and by the time we reconvened, we were both shattered and ready for home – but not before picking up two huge slabs of cake to have with tea when we got back.

The drive home culminated in a call from the other member of the ex-wives club, also fuming and asking if The Eldest was with me as she was about throttle her for yet another breakdown in communication? This one I was unable to shed any light on, beyond a sympathetic “FFS!”.

Pulling up at the traffic lights, I looked at P (who had heard all of these calls and could probably see my eye twitching like Herbert Lom) and half-expected; and wouldn’t have blamed her, if she’d opened the car door and made a bolt for it. I told her that it wasn’t too late, but instead we laughed, drank tea and ate cake.

Having walked P home, I returned to mine, collapsed on the sofa and promptly lost myself in episode 1 of The Beatles documentary Get Back. It’s a surreal experience where you feel privileged to bear witness to the rare sight of lightning being captured in a bottle, as some of their most iconic songs are brought to life in a free-flowing creative process, largely fuelled by tea, toast and cigarettes. Creative alchemy.