For days I kept wondering when the lady with the trolley was coming with supper. It slowly dawned on me that I am now the lady with supper and I needed to get back in the kitchen if we were going to eat anything that doesn't come out of a tin. Actually, that is a bit mean. The Husband also knows where the freezer is. I couldn't resist a smile (or was it a smirk?) when Number Three said: "The best thing about having you home Mummy, is that we don't have to put up with Dad's rubbish cooking any more..."
When Madam and I arrived back in the village 10 days ago, The Husband and I promised each other that life would get back to normal. We also promised that we would stop sweating the small stuff as we have learnt through bitter experience how precious life is.
It was all going swimmingly, until we were expected at a black-tie party last week. For most women, this ordinarily requires a little organising on the wardrobe front. For women who have just moved house and have all their worldly goods in boxes and who have also spent a month without recourse to depilation, it requires a lot of organising.
I had mentally earmarked a long navy velvet skirt and a blue tartan corset, but decided that because life is too short and precious and uncertain and fragile, I would dispense with Being Organised in Advance. Which meant that I left everything until the last minute. Of course the intended outfit was not where I thought it would be, so with only a couple of hours before we were expected for cocktails, I had to rifle through a load of boxes. Only to find that as I had consumed mostly bread products during our confinement, the corset wasn't going to make it as a top. As a leg warmer, it would have been excellent.
That is the closest I have come to a post-hospital wobble. In the end, I wore a long black tutu and a black lace top, both of which fitted, thanks to the modern miracle that is lycra. We were an hour and a half late and missed the mojitos completely. People were either too pissed or too polite to remark that I looked like a large gothic meringue. Or perhaps they were distracted by my Denis Healy eyebrows.