Chronicles of a Trailing Spouse...

Almost 3 year old is finally flirting with the idea of using a toilet. He first showed an interest a year ago but is now starting to get serious and moving the relationship on to the next stage. First thing in the morning he comes downstairs, removes his nappy with a flourish, and takes himself off to the toilet to have a pee. Unlike his brothers, who at his age happily sat on the toilet to have a pee, he insists on standing ‘like daddy’, which is tricky given his short stature and means he needs to slightly elevate himself onto his tiptoes. On completion of this morning ritual, we dutifully applaud and hug him and he happily basks in the praise. So far so good. The problem is, roughly three hours later, he'll wander off into a corner, again remove nappy and take a dump on the floor. If I'm not in the room, he will go and fetch toilet roll and anti bacterial spray and go to work on the mess. Usually, by the time I realise what's happening, he looks like he's...

I need a cleaner. What had been the selling point of my new house has now become the bane of my life. Prior to moving in I had been heard airily proclaiming - ‘ oh, it’s lovely, all open-plan downstairs, lovely and bright! And since it’s smaller it will be sooo much easier to keep clean’ . WRONG! It’s a bloody nightmare because whereas in my last place there were a labyrinth of rooms to chuck things into, in this place there is nowhere to hide. The lovely open spaces are filled with piles of washing, school bags and paperwork. Open-plan is the kiss of death unless you have enough storage to match the size of the room or you are uber organised. Having a cleaner has a good effect on me, it keeps me on the straight and narrow. In my previous house I had one and on the days that she visited I would spend the morning tidying up, cleaning toilets, generally making her job a little less difficult. And mysteriously, what might take me days to get through she would have finished i...

I was born a month prematurely, and that was the last time I was early for anything. Even then, it was an elective cesarean so I wasn't even responsible for this uncommon punctuality. I am terminally late for everything: when it comes to time-keeping, I enter the realm of ‘magical thinking’ where an appointment for 12.30pm, 15 minutes drive away, means I leave the house at 12.25pm. This sounds like straightforward bad manners but it's more complicated than that and is rather a combination of a misplaced optimism, a tendency to blur uncomfortable facts, as well as a need to be in crisis mode at all times (I have the same philosophy with money). The result is that I’m permanently late, harassed and apologetic. I have cunningly set all my clocks 5 minutes fast which is a pointless exercise since I merely make a mental adjustment whenever I look at them. This tardiness is a common trait in my family where no holiday was complete without missing either a ferry or a plane. So...