Friday night

OOOOOOh, Friday night. Yippee. The end of the week. Put your feet up, slug several pints of wine or whatever tipple is your poison, put your best heels and dress on and head out in to the night to dine and dance your way to the early hours. Tomorrow will be a blurry, slightly headachy morning followed by a bacon sarnie, several rounds of lifestyle coffee, a newspaper and a good shop in some expensive shoe stores.

Or.

Crawl to the end of the week. Grateful that Better Half will now be there for 48 hours and you can tag team on the screaming shit machine. Baby routine continues – book (his not yours), bath (ditto), bottle (milk, not vino), bed (him and you, probably at the same time). THe rest of Friday night involves a quick dinner, a possible glass of wine (but not too much so you can still drive if there is an emergency, and so still hear the baby wail that will inevitably occur at oh, 10pm, 1 am, 4am and 6am; there will likely still be wine left in the wine glass tomorrow morning) and then semi consciousness for, if you’re lucky, 6 hours. Tomorrow will be a blurry, hideously early morning followed by a redecoration of the kitchen in banana puree, some form of caffeine (drunk by the gallon), the radio on quietly in the car and mothercare at 9am.

WTF happened?

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