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Therapy

A very lovely 82 year old man I don’t know has just read my last two posts and kindly suggested that I need therapy. I’m pretty sure he meant this as an insult. Hell no! I can’t tell you how much I would LOVE to have some therapy right now. Therapy would mean sitting in a room with no children and talking to an adult I’m not married to. I could wang on about how I’m feeling for an entire hour and unlike my husband this person would only expect money and not some sort of sexual thank-you at the end of it. So therapy sounds beyond idyllic. Yes fucking please!


Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to leave the house so therapy isn’t an option. But cooking is. Cooking is the stay-at-home equivalent of doing a Key Worker job. Without food everybody dies. Spreading Nutella on white supermarket bread with the back of a spoon or sticking yet another pizza in the oven helps your family survive another day in isolation. Cooking or heating stuff up makes you a stay-at-home-mother-fucking superhero. It’s essential. And because it’s essential it trumps all other at-home tasks including cleaning, explaining improper fractions and pretending to be interested in the kids.

If you need therapy (as has been suggested to me by 82 year old Roger) or just twenty minutes where everyone has to leave you the fuck alone, then make risotto. Risotto is genius. It’s basically just rice and liquid. It’s cheap. You don’t even have to add vegetables that no one will eat. But best of all you have to keep stirring the fucking thing. You can’t be interrupted. Or it could burn. So for twenty minutes everyone has to take their impossible primary school maths, their inane TikTok videos and their endless requests for more juice and just fuck right off.


The downside of risotto cooking as therapy is that we’re all eating a lot of carbs. Joe Wicks is not an option. The last time I woke up before 9am was a month ago. (And I know the man is a national hero but I really want to hit him.) Instead I’ve found ‘The Fitness Marshall’ on YouTube. He calls everyone his ‘Booties’ and yells things like ‘It’s OK to touch your body!’ and ‘Rub that cake all over your face!’ whilst doing some x-rated dance moves with his hips. The kids are beyond fucking horrified. Last week I actually tried some of the workouts. Now I just put on leggings and go into the front room to ‘exercise’ with a water bottle full of wine. The kids definitely won’t come in. They’re terrified of seeing their mother gyrating to a Britney Spears track like a decrepit pole dancer who is braless for all the wrong reasons. So I get to watch a beautiful camp man dance like a porn star in peace.


Peace is precious. It’s pretty hard to find in household of five so I’ll take it where I can. Right now my own children are all in their dark rooms (again) but one of my neighbours kids is practising the violin. This should be illegal in a city during lock down. Not only is the kid totally shit and I already have a headache from watching Netflix until 1am but it highlights the fact that my own kids are not practising the violin. In fact I’m pretty sure the only thing the older two are practising with any kind of regularity is how to masturbate. But I really don’t want to know for sure. I’d probably need more therapy. As would they.


So just in case they are ‘practising’ I’m going to leave them to it. Anyway, I’ve eaten risotto for five meals in a row now and I really need to go and work out. I’m taking the wine with me.

 
 

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