I used to dread those days.
Those impossibly long, soul draining, parental working days.
You know the ones.
The ones that get underway well before the sun comes up, where the dog barks and the child screams and the wind blows the outdoor setting over before the alarm on your mobile phone ever gets a chance to squeal its morning not-so-glory in your ear.
The ones where you manage to squeeze three hours of morning preparation into one, managing to layer nail varnish onto the holes in your last pair of tights whilst co-brushing your teeth with your toddler, making a mental note to buy more milk and burning a hole in your ear with your straightening iron.
The ones where you, the toddler and your miraculous holy grail head of straightened hair run out the front door smack bang into a cyclonic rain storm, only to find the umbrella is missing presumed drowned in the toilet, replaced with a hyper colour plastic phone and six old sultanas covered in indistinguishable fluff and grit.
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