The Teenager is back from his last ever school trip, a half-term jaunt to Washington.
Luckily for him, it coincided with my horrendous cold/semi-flu/downright miserable symptoms, so he got away lightly.
After six days of peace and a strange sense of calm at home, he arrived back on Thursday.
Long story short, they really should tear up the alphabet and name the next big hurricane after him – Hurricane Christopher, Extra Strength.
Chaos reigned once more, the bathroom sink was quickly defiled by toothpaste stains, the laundry basket was protesting. The fridge was stripped bare and The Teenager stalked our tiny cottage, bewailing a dire lack of protein.
Life was back to normal.
A couple of days have now passed and it’s like riding a bike – I’m once more used to the texts he sends, despite us being 7 or so metres apart:
‘Hellloooooooo moooommmmaaaa – beans on toast with extra cheese, ta. Love you. xx.’
‘Can I have a tenner for tomorrow? All my friends do. Party.’
‘How many chicken nuggets are in the freezer?’
From my Sofa Command Centre, I fire back replies:
Come stand-off, he normally treads downstairs and ruffles my hair in a semi-ironic fashion and calls me ‘Mom’ in a fake American accent. It usually works.
In the meantime, I have been feeling very sorry for myself, laying semi-comatose on my sofa. My head has been hammering and I’ve felt like, well … ill. I hate it.
I’ve had to take six whole days off work and have been too ill to even watch Jeremy Kyle, a sure sign that I really am … ill. If I had the energy, I would kick myself. And pop out to buy some Wotsits and Aero Bubbles.
My dissertation is wobbling around my subconsciousness and I know I’m in trouble when I have to thesaurus the word, ‘however’. With the deadline looming, I’m panicking.
All the best writers wobble? And if you’re not the best, you wobble more?