There was a time, when I was on maternity leave with Son no.3, that my husband had an Aussie visitor - a bachelor of indeterminate years, I hasten to add. He spent at least half the evening preening himself, and liked the sound of his own voice. I might as well not have been there - apart from cooking the meal and ensuring that the merry sounds of three little boys didn't intrude on the evening's entertainment. At one memorable point in the proceedings, he smiled benignly, and (as though he was cracking his own special joke) called me a frustrated housewife.
Me! Who only ever took the minimum maternity leave because we needed my salary. A Housewife?
Public holidays serve to remind me that I wouldn't even make a very good housewife. I cook, and clean, and iron, organise hairdresser's trips and clean out goldfish bowls - all the things that any sensible person would do routinely, but I stuff the whole lot into one action-packed weekend and then wonder why it hasn't felt like a break.
Yesterday I cooked diligently - Scotch broth for Aunty, bread rolls, apple crumble ...
We invited Aunty across to tea, and had the satisfaction of watching her devour the lot with gusto (which goes to show she doesn't feed herself properly). And then once Aunty had been taken home and Son no.3 was in bed, I went and did the weekly supermarket run.
Once home, it was all I could do to summon up the energy to put it all away in the right places.
I've just been told (by Son no.3, the only one around downstairs) that it's teatime. I'll get no peace otherwise ...