If you heard a rumour that I was freeeeeeee this weekend, then you were misinformed.
At ten to ten last night the phone rang.
It appears, as I have long suspected to be the case, that five hours of parenting is Ex-Husband-Andy’s limit. Five hours plus one second and his paternal coping skills turn back into a pumpkin and all that’s left to prove he was ever there, are a tear-stained nine year old and a McDonalds toy.
Annabelle’s dreams of enjoying a camping trip with her father disappeared in a cloud of exhaust fumes as she witnessed the emperor finally admitting that his new clothes were perhaps, not all they have been cracked up to be, and high-tailing his Mercedes back in the direction of a land where his own personal needs are going to be the pressing topic of conversation.
I think that, at this point, the topic of conversation should really be why there are an increasing number of men who believe that it’s okay to go around ‘womb-dumping’ their kids, onto any bird who takes their fancy.
Having started the ‘family’, they then have second thoughts and retreat to the safety of the Rose & Crown where they can be heard, on any given Sunday lunch-time, loudly explaining to anyone who’ll listen, how ‘their kid is happier now they’ve cleared back off down the pub’ and that ‘their greedy witch of an ex is just after their money to spend on manicures and hair-extensions’.
Their down-time, from the night-club based hunt for a fresh uterus to start a ‘family’ in, is spent fudging the numbers on their tax return to avoid having to pay any more than six quid a week for the ‘ones they made earlier’.
Annabelle is beside herself and, perhaps more worryingly, busily attempting to agree with her pointless-cretin of a father, and take full blame for the fact that she is not, as we speak, happily putting up a tent somewhere in the New Forest.
The best that I can offer in terms of consolation is that, as most of us discover at some point in our lives, when she finds herself in the company of disappointment or sadness, that the magic ingredients of a phone and the ability to type in some numbers will always summon up, the most steadfast but fearsome of creatures.
Most of us single parents do not live off our trust funds and very few of us are crowned princesses of some principality in the Mediterranean. I currently have about 20p to my name so am unable to replace the missing camping trip.
I will however, keep trudging on in the hope that someday circumstances will change, and I will finally be in a position to nail Ex-Husband-Andy to the M4 and spend a day merrily reversing backwards and forwards over the useless prick with the help of a brand-spanking new, Aston Martin DBS Volante.
My advice to Andy would, at this point, be as follows. Keep a north eye firmly over your shoulder.
‘Cos I’m coming to get you!