The boss was away for the weekend recently, doing whatever middle-aged women do for fun, leaving yours truly in charge of the house, kids, puppy and cats.
To be honest everything passed off without serious incident.
But when dad rules the roost for any length of time, it’s like when a supply teacher turns up for a lesson normally taught by the school’s resident psychopath, who by rights should be on some sort of register as opposed to taking one.
Chairs are kicked back, hands are folded behind heads and everyone’s clocked off.
The shift in power is almost visible.
So it was Fortune Star takeaway for dinner, the puppy spent Saturday afternoon asleep on the sofa with his paws in the air woofing away to himself, a slew of mindless football was on TV all weekend and I ferried our daughters around Lancaster like the glorified taxi driver that I am.
As it’s my birthday later this month, I’m half expecting a chauffeur’s cap, jacket and driving gloves from our daughters because on the rare occasions they look up from their iPhones to talk to me it’s to ask for something – and it’s usually a lift, oh, and can we pick up one of their friends on the way?
There used to be a Dad’s Taxi sticker on the rear windscreen of a car we once had until some scrote nicked it from outside our house, drove it around for the weekend and then burnt it out in Avenham Park in Preston.
I’d get another sticker but our kids would roll their eyes every time they saw it.
Anyway, daughter #2 spent the weekend dancing at events at Lancaster University and The Platform in Morecambe while her big sister and the boyfriend were brave enough to take Walter the puppy for a massive walk.
He’s a lovely dog but regular readers will know the only voice he listens to is the one in his stomach telling him he’s hungry – and he’s got a taste for scrambled eggs, roast chicken, car keys, grapes, bread rolls, spectacles and wallpaper.
I’d buy a whistle if I didn’t think I’d be marching around Williamson Park peeping it like an honorary member of the Dagenham Girl Pipers while the dog charges around like a sweetie wrapper in a gale.