Homecoming

Dig comes home to the shires today. When he arrives, he will crash about the office, and fall into the furniture. This is understandable, having lived the last month on Asia time. And I expect his arrival will be made worse by that thing that happens in aeroplanes, where you think it is really three o'clock in the morning but the cabin staff demand you give yourself a blanket bath with a wet flannel while they flick coffee at you and force feed you a Danish pastry.

Well I can't be too sad about those experiences, if they are miserable. In fact it could be argued that Dig deserves some punishment for being away an entire month. When he comes home I can imagine his heart sinks because there's domestic punishment in store for him too.

For a start the house will be irredeemably chaotic, with no five star hotel perfection here. It will have a sort of bomb-blasted charm of course, with a half-finished model of a t-rex on the kitchen table and cut-up paper strewn about the floor, but its charm will have a short lived impact. Soon Dig will see it for the reality it is. A tip.

Then there is the small problem of the cracks in the ceiling, the broken down heating, the floorboard that's still wobbly, the bathroom that's broken, the toilet that leaks.

But of course your lovely wife will be here, smeared in glue and olive oil, wearing the clothes she wore last week with the sort of coiffure that breathes, caravan hair. I will drone on and on about boring things like the door fallen off the washing machine and what the children will be doing next Thursday to put into context the intellectually challenging material you have become accustomed to, like the economic outlook for South Korea to 2050. Then, possibly because no-one is listening to me or seems to care whether I am dead or alive, I might intermittently lie on the floor and weep, thus forcing everyone to step over me.

Dig's punishment probably won't stop there. Sadly, the sight of me is off putting, even to me. I bet sexy wife Grit would have a fantastically shaped body with improbable assets held up without wires, a sassy, classy dress sense, wonderful flawless complexion, fabulous hair and a vibrant sexy laugh, if only I hadn't been kicked about by the last nine years, run over by the steamroller called life, and generally been beaten up and battered down by all circumstance, before being randomly left alone for a month to feed, clothe and educate the children before picking up the bailiff's letters thanks to the bill Dig forgot to pay before he left.

Of course there is always the home punishment called Grit's cooking. Once my vegan tarte and vegetarian risotto was a source of continual delight and interest. Now I am the equivalent of a 1970s recipe book with some pages missing. Dig will look upon his plate like I have served him with a plastic squeaking lizard instead of some fine cuisine inspired by fusion of east and west. Hang on there, that may be true, because these days I do become confused and have been known to put dinner in the toy box.

Welcome home, Dig.

And, by the way, I saw a mouse run across your office floor last night.