Harissa Carrots

I’m seriously worried about my husband. I mean I don’t know how on earth he’s managing. At this exact moment he is busy taking a very important work call. He’s also sat in the garden wearing skinny jeans, no socks and simultaneously drinking a can of cold beer. I’m not sure how much more of this insane multi-tasking the poor man can take. The impact it’s all having on his mental and physical health is horribly apparent. I mean he even looks different. He now has an impressive tan and thanks to the fact he’s started running (every bloody day) he’s also looking revoltingly trim. I’m very very concerned.

Mainly because I might actually kill him. I’m watching him through the window with my too-tight trousers unbuttoned at the waist whilst surrounded by 43 printed-out sheets on ‘fronted adverbials’. There are piles of unwashed pants everywhere. A thick layer of dust on every surface. And everyone needs dinner. I’ve got as far as putting the oven on and then giving up. I’m now just staring at the bloody thing in the hope that I might feel inspired, or someone else might get so hungry that they come and use it. I am so fucking sick of cooking that I almost don't want to eat. Almost.

My husband gets really excited at the prospect of food. He spends the weekends reading cookbooks, cooking dishes like a professional fucking chef and trying to get Nigella Lawson to answer his random questions on Instagram. (She’s still ignoring him). He plans and shops for some really complicated dishes. At the weekend this means we’re all eating incredibly. Unfortunately during the week, the cooking is down to me and the fridge is full of ingredients I can’t pronounce and a shit load of fish that the kids won’t touch. If the man mentions the words ‘Harissa Carrots’ one more time I’m going to shove a Pot Noodle up his incredibly toned arse.

‘Harissa carrots’ are the least inflammatory thing he’s said in the past 24 hours. Yesterday was a total shit storm of a day. My youngest son needed blood tests. The entire thing started out badly and ended up with the child screaming at three lovely nurses that they were all ‘murderers who like stabbing children.’ At home the other two decided they'd had enough of lock down and started behaving like ‘murderers who like stabbing children.’ By bedtime I’d resumed by favourite hobby of crying. My husband asked if the crying was possibly due to hormones. The man is really fucking lucky I wasn’t holding a Pot Noodle at the time. Or a Harissa Carrot. Whatever the fuck that is.

Vegetables aren’t exactly figuring highly on my lock down diet. Unless potatoes count. Specifically in the form of Walkers crisps. Please someone reassure me that these count. The constantly hungry boys spend their days opening and closing cupboards whilst looking for snacks. I’ve had to hide my personal crisp stash in places that they’ll never look. Underneath clean clothes. Behind the hoover. Inside the washing machine.

Maybe I should just forget about dinner, switch the oven off and let everyone go wild with the contents of the washing machine. Whatever happens I’m not handing over the Pot Noodles. I might need them to violate my husband.

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