Ever since an illicit copy of the Ikea catalogue landed in my lap sometime
in the early 2000s, I’ve had a love affair with the store. Back in those days
-- due to Irish planning laws which deemed the store too big -- there was no Ikea in Ireland, and we were obliged to take the ferry to the
UK (as we were/still are for so many other things), or head north of the border to fill
our cars to the ceiling with those sleek, Swedish and affordable designs. It moved beyond the dull, family-owned furniture
shops which dominated towns and cities of the Republic at the time - with their ugly squishy sofas and mahogany nests of tables. It was revolutionary,
it was exciting, with its effortless, clean designs and clever flat-packaging.
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When the second boy-child was only six-weeks-old, we went on holiday to Tuscany. Yes I know, I know, six weeks old - what was I thinking? And worse was the discovery that the large haul of 50's inspired dresses from Debenhams and Oasis -- which I had amassed over the pregnancy in preparation for 'the other side' -- were ill-fitting and unattractive on my milky, postnatally-violated body, and as I sauntered down the lungomare in Viareggio, bloated and pale, I felt less like Sophia Loren and more like Zsa Zsa Gabor -- the latter years. (And yes, I know she’s Hungarian, but I can't think of any overweight, dodgy looking Italian women, which is saying something in itself).
Anyway, I digress; one beautiful Tuscan morning, rather than exploring the narrow streets and cafés of Lucca where we were staying, we drove to Florence - not to visit the Duomo or the Ponte Vecchio, but rather the large blue and yellow-signed warehouse on the outskirts of the city, in order to buy one of the coveted Cath Kidston-designed shower curtains, several sets of bug-themed duvet and curtains, a snowflake-inspired mosquito net and two side-tables.
Sad, isn't it?
Remarkably, with some clever packing we manage to squish these extra items into our suitcase. However, showing up to the check-in desk 45 and a half nano-seconds late for our connecting flight at Stanstead, meant we had to wait for -- and pay for -- the next flight, despite much weeping and pointing at the sleeping infant ‘but he’s a newborn!’
Unmoved, the stone-faced Ryanair customer-relations manager stood staring at his watch, his heart hardened to our plight (no doubt having come through several weeks of intensive insensitivity training, while mentally repeating the Michael O'Leary-inspired mantra 'the customer is always wrong, the customer is ALWAYS wrong!')
And as we sat in the departures lounge, several hundred euros poorer, it soon became apparent that due to delays, our original flight hadn't even boarded yet and we were surrounded by what should have been our fellow passengers from the original flight. That’s Ryanair for you, service with a smile and a surcharge.
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When the second boy-child was only six-weeks-old, we went on holiday to Tuscany. Yes I know, I know, six weeks old - what was I thinking? And worse was the discovery that the large haul of 50's inspired dresses from Debenhams and Oasis -- which I had amassed over the pregnancy in preparation for 'the other side' -- were ill-fitting and unattractive on my milky, postnatally-violated body, and as I sauntered down the lungomare in Viareggio, bloated and pale, I felt less like Sophia Loren and more like Zsa Zsa Gabor -- the latter years. (And yes, I know she’s Hungarian, but I can't think of any overweight, dodgy looking Italian women, which is saying something in itself).
Anyway, I digress; one beautiful Tuscan morning, rather than exploring the narrow streets and cafés of Lucca where we were staying, we drove to Florence - not to visit the Duomo or the Ponte Vecchio, but rather the large blue and yellow-signed warehouse on the outskirts of the city, in order to buy one of the coveted Cath Kidston-designed shower curtains, several sets of bug-themed duvet and curtains, a snowflake-inspired mosquito net and two side-tables.
Sad, isn't it?
Remarkably, with some clever packing we manage to squish these extra items into our suitcase. However, showing up to the check-in desk 45 and a half nano-seconds late for our connecting flight at Stanstead, meant we had to wait for -- and pay for -- the next flight, despite much weeping and pointing at the sleeping infant ‘but he’s a newborn!’
Unmoved, the stone-faced Ryanair customer-relations manager stood staring at his watch, his heart hardened to our plight (no doubt having come through several weeks of intensive insensitivity training, while mentally repeating the Michael O'Leary-inspired mantra 'the customer is always wrong, the customer is ALWAYS wrong!')
And as we sat in the departures lounge, several hundred euros poorer, it soon became apparent that due to delays, our original flight hadn't even boarded yet and we were surrounded by what should have been our fellow passengers from the original flight. That’s Ryanair for you, service with a smile and a surcharge.
Anyway, here in Perth the love affair with the
Swedish giant has continued. Not only does it offer a free drop-in creche, but I can also feed all five children in the canteen for
less than $20. LESS THAN $20! I pay more than that in McDonald's and don’t
get me started on Miss Maud who recently charged me $40 for 4 sausage rolls, 4
juices and a coffee and muffin; I know which Swede I prefer. So while the kids play for free, I get to wander
around, filling my yellow bag with plastic coat hangers, heart-shaped ice-cube trays and bolts of fabric which will no doubt languish in my cupboard until I eventually pack them up into a bag for the homeless....
Fit in or F*ck off, as they say (or FIFO...)
So DH has been and gone, and in truth I can't say I'm diggin' this whole FIFO experience. Yes he gets to be home for a whole week at a time, which -- purely from the perspective of avoiding the morning school-run -- is a big positive for me (and the kids; they get to be on time for five whole consecutive days), but beyond that all we do is laze the day away like students, shuffling around in pyjamas, drinking endless cups of coffee, watching Cbeebies or Selling Houses Australia (you gotta watch it, hilarious stuff!), while reminiscing about how good life was before we had kids.
Of course in DH's head, a week off means a week-long shag-a-thon, something which is sadly at odds with what I have in mind (which is largely based around sharing housework and having someone to get drunk with) which only adds to the crushing disappointment and sense of anti-climax (no pun intended) when it's all over.
Eventually we'll decide to get dressed and venture out for a coffee or lunch, just as it's time to collect the kids from school. And all my feeble attempts at any sort of routine while he's been away, is blasted to bits; zumba classes abandoned, mid-week sobriety cast aside, coffee mornings with friends unceremoniously ditched, and before you know it, it's all over and I'm driving him back to the airport again thinking 'was that it?'
The value of having a partner come home each evening -- just at that point where you are seriously considering either necking a whole bottle of vodka or getting into the car and just driving far, far away -- can not be underestimated, and having it rationed to just one week in three is quite frankly, bollocks. And don't get me started on the broken dishwasher, Ikea shelves that need assembling, and the midnight sounds of a crazed murderer outside my bedroom door.... DH, if you're reading this, please come home...
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| See you in two weeks! |
Hope the 3 weeks fly by fast.
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