Before I start could I just apologise to my dear friend Nancy, who, having read a few of my diary entries, is wondering if she’s made a terrible mistake getting pregnant. Of course it’s not a mistake my dear, this is just the bad stuff, there’s lots of good stuff… no honestly!

"Mummy, Mummy, Billie is crying orange tears". We race upstairs; Olly, flush in the knowledge that it is not him who is in trouble for once, leads the way. There’s Bill halfway up the stairs: indeed she is crying, and the tears are orange. She’s found the face paints and now most of her face, head and the stairs are a rather fetching rusty colour. She discovered them in the stair basket; a handy device purchased from one of those compelling little magazines that sell you a thousand solutions to those nagging domestic problems. It is supposed to act as staging post between what’s going up and what’s going down. Of course, in reality, the stuff just sits there in No Man’s Land and after a while I forget whether it’s going upstairs, downstairs or even in my Lady’s chamber.

And Bill’s orangeness is, of course, my fault. I did that thing I always do, namely find something dangerous, put it in a halfway safe place whilst reminding myself to move it somewhere else ‘as soon as’. And it’s usually ‘as soon as’ one of the Dastardly Duo get hold of it and do their worst. The indelible pen left within arm’s reach, the half-full cup of cold tea not quite steady enough on the coffee table, the packet of Nesquik left ready to be put back in the cupboard. Now the kitchen wall is displaying an interesting abstract rendering of blue pen, the white throw on the sofa is patterned with a brownish sort of marking and the kitchen floor has a rather attractive light dusting of chocolate powder. Why I tempt fate repeatedly is a mystery to me. I guess I need therapy because, like the woman who always has affairs with unsuitable men, I too am in a pattern I can’t seem to break. I know that half of this household is a disaster waiting to happen and yet some sort of inertia prevents me from changing things to help me in the long term.

I didn’t for instance, buy childproof locks for all my cupboards, partly it has to be said because when they were both really little a few smashed plates seemed the least of our problems. (And Steve is not the handiest of men when it comes to wielding a screwdriver. This is after all the man who, during our BC* days measured his books when shopping for shelves, rather than the space he had in the room.) Why do I continue to put my tea towels and oven gloves on the handle on the cooker when the first thing the kids do when they enter the room is twiddle it until they’re all on the floor. I also don’t keep the toilet rolls out of reach, so we often have confetti of tissue on our navy blue (why choose that colour with children?) carpet. Come to think of it why is my living room, including cupboards and sofas white? It’s like one big bit of bloody paper to my two.

Actually, I know the answer. Just as that woman who always dates dreadful cads knows that actually she is afraid of, and avoiding, commitment, I know that I am, in fact, pretending I don’t have children. Look at my normalng cupboards, my unsuitable dйcor, my ornaments and precariously placed lamps (I confess one particular one has now been replaced THREE times). I am not a woman with children; I am a carefree, easy living dude with lots of time to myself. It is a mad delusion, and though emotionally I feel completely happy having the children in my life, aesthetically I hate having to share with a ton of larey plastic.

I just wish that my stuff could still survive too. "Clean, modern lines with natural tones of stone and sand" are no match against the striking orange and black of Action Man’s natty dreads. And why didn’t Little Tikes read Wallpaper magazine before they designed their doll’s house. If only I had the money to buy those gorgeous wooden toys you see around, but I don’t. I also don’t have the luxury of stuffing their gear into a playroom. So all our possessions, like the Odd Couple, rub along together in a rather uncomfortable fashion.

Mind you, even if they had no toys at all there would be no contest against the scattering of crumbs that my two produce on an hourly basis. Anyone would think they were Hansel and Gretel leaving a trail out of the woods the amount of stuff I am constantly sweeping up. Sadly there’s no fairytale ending to this dйcor disaster - even the Gingerbread house looks restrained compared to our interior. So this particular wicked witch will have to continue to rail against the inevitable or try and drink a magic potion that makes purple plastic a little more palatable.

*BC - Before Children of course!

Quote of the Week

Coming across Olly and Billie hiding under my duvet:
Olly: "We are lumps."
Billie adds: "We are talking lumps."

Juliet Jones lives in domestic chaos with husband Steve, son Oliver (aged 3) and daughter Billie (aged 2) in Hertfordshire.

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