Monday

Day One Back at Work: Send Help

Today was my first day back at work and I could already feel in my bones it was going to be a crap show. I woke up wanting the world to just swallow me whole, but apparently being a responsible adult means ignoring the desire to disappear and instead dragging myself out of bed to face the chaos.

The morning started surprisingly well — we made it out of the house on time, kids dropped at breakfast club for 7:30 sharp, car at the garage for 7:45, and my Uber booked for 7:55. I was basically living the dream. Keys handed over, rucksack strapped on, headphones in, and my trusty Yeti thermos still holding coffee hot enough to cauterise a wound. Honestly, that thing is the only relationship in my life I can rely on. (Link below because everyone needs one.)

Work was… meh. Nothing dramatic, just the usual mountain of catching up after being off. I moved into a new office space, sorted through resources, set up pupil profiles, prepped folders — you know, the kind of jobs that make you feel productive while simultaneously sucking the life out of you. By lunch I felt overworked but organised, which I guess is the best I can hope for.

But all day, in the back of my mind, I was stressing about the bloody car. Would it be ready? Would I be bankrupt by 5pm? Or would they keep it hostage forever and start charging me storage like it’s a bloody hotel?

Of course, by home time the heavens opened. Not a gentle drizzle. Oh no. A biblical downpour. And guess who didn’t have a coat? This girl. Why? Because my coat lives in the boot of my car. And where’s my car? At the garage, laughing at me. So there I was, standing in the rain like a drowned rat waiting for my Uber, headphones soaked, mascara doing a budget Halloween costume down my face.

Picked the kids up, trekked to Aldi, met their dad who gave me a lift to the garage. Easy part over. Then came the sting: £356.21. Three. Hundred. Fifty. Six. Pounds. And twenty-one pence.

I asked Sandra at the desk what the 21p was for. “Admin fee.” Don’t take the piss, Sandra. That’s for the screw Dave the mechanic dropped and couldn’t be bothered to find. And £180 for two hours of labour? For what? Whispering sweet nothings to my gearbox? Honestly, I’m starting a side hustle as a mechanic. If all it takes is two hours and a pair of oily hands to earn that kind of money, hand me the spanners.

Got home, walked into chaos. Harrison still in his school uniform, VR headset on, lost in a virtual world while his real-life one looked like a crime scene. School shoes, coat, bags — all dumped on the floor. I tripped, nearly went flying, and lost my rag. Gave him the speech: no gaming until your uniform’s off, room is clean, bag sorted, and the dishes — YOUR breakfast dishes — are cleared. He apologised and scurried off. Honestly, I’ve scared less out of the dog.

Meanwhile, Jacob was an angel. He told me he’d had a good day and even asked how mine was. My cold dead heart melted a little when he said “love ya.” I replied “love ya too.” Bless him. Every mom needs one kid who doesn’t drive her to drink.

Just when I thought the day couldn’t get worse, I remembered I’d put a wash on before work. The machine, however, had other ideas. Door jammed shut, flashing random codes like it was trying to contact aliens. I knew this battle already: open the filter at the bottom and unleash hell.

And hell it was. Out came a tsunami of stagnant swamp water. The smell? Imagine Satan’s armpit mixed with bin juice. I gagged. Inside the filter: coins, hair bobbles, Lego pieces, a paperclip, possibly an entire small rodent. Why? Because apparently I’m supposed to check pockets like some unpaid laundrette maid.

But the pièce de résistance? Wrapped tight around the filter, like it was mocking me, was a torn-up £5 note. Yep. A literal fiver chewed to death by the washing machine. And what really kills me? Not one child has mentioned losing it. If it were me, I’d have been kicking off, demanding a missing persons report for my money. Them? Silent. Kids these days don’t even notice they’re bleeding me dry.

So here I am, soaked, skint, knackered, standing in a house that smells like sewage, asking myself: is this really it? Work, car bills, broken washing machines, and kids who think clothes magically wash themselves? Honestly, someone book me a one-way ticket to anywhere that isn’t here.
FiveKidsOneMom