We all know that H works too hard. He goes weeks without sleeping in a proper bed, instead changing into First Class Airline Pajamas every night and getting tucked in by a very gay man with a tight uniform and a thick accent. When he is home, he sets his alarm for midnight to take calls with colleagues in other time zones. He reads exciting novels like "Negotiating With Rich Assholes" for pleasure. Fancy here is constantly putting clean underwear in a taxi and sending it his office.
In other words, he's sort of pushed to the limit.
And if you needed further proof, here's last night's Fancy Home Ridiculousness. I had my book group last night and even though I couldn't actually choke my way through the entire train wreck of a novel that it was, I was very excited to see the ladies. Right on time, Babysitter #2 walked in. Seeing H sitting there playing with the girls she stopped.
"I am here this evening, right?" she asked, as the Minis took turns whacking their father with a wooden mallet. (Kids toys are something, eh?)
"Oh yes! He doesn't count," I laughed, setting the TV to her favourite channel.
As if on cue, H stood up and started walking out of the room. "I have a call," he muttered. "Be upstairs."
"You know the drill," I said, picking up my bag. "Either he sends you home or I will. See ya."
Four hours later I returned. Babysitter #2 was contently sitting on the sofa watching a movie. She grabbed her bag and took off, calling, "See you Friday! They were little angels!"
I found H upstairs playing on his computer.
"You didn't want to send Babysitter #2 home?"
His jaw fell open. "I forgot."
Yes, he actually forgot that his children were sleeping in the house and there was a middle-aged woman sitting in our living room watching telly.
Time to rethink this Fancy job, don't you agree?
Then again, feeding my children donkey meat doesn't put me in the best light. Go check out In The Powder Room this week!