One of the many challenging aspects of sharing my house with two other adults (in my case the nanny and my husband) is that I can never be quite certain at whom to direct my wrath when something goes awry. Was it my husband who left the Wensleydale unwrapped, or the nanny? Was that wet laundry abandoned by him or by her? Who is responsible for leaving the loo seat up? Actually, come to think of it, that one’s probably not down to the nanny. Unless there’s something she’s not telling us.
The lack of confirmed scapegoat means I either stomp about in a noisy huff, directing accusatory statements at nobody in particular, or I ignore the issue altogether. I tend towards the latter. My husband is less circumspect in his annoyance, and because he has long ago accepted that I Can Do No Wrong, he simply blames the nanny. For everything. I suspect he’d pin global warming on her given half the chance.
This morning my husband has discovered there is no paper in the downstairs loo, the roll left empty on the holder. He brings the roll into the kitchen as evidence, brandishing it before me as he despairs at the nanny’s slovenly ways.
“It’s just so bloody lazy!” He exclaims. “I mean, how long does it take to fetch another loo roll and put the empty one in the bin?”
With that he abandons the paperless-loo in favour of the en-suite, setting down the cardboard tube on the kitchen table. I’ll change that then, shall I?