It’s 6am. I am perching on the edge of a single bed, parked next to two empty cots. I realise that the sleeping configurations with twins make the seat configuration of a Vauxhall Zafira look like a moped. The Mighty-Headed boy has usurped me and nabbed my side of the bed – currently wrapped around a concerned Didsbury Wife as he snuffles through the night; a scent somewhere between baking croissants and hay rolling off him.
The pearl-topped Princess is sprawled, finally calm. Her right fist is still gripping my shoulder and that touch alone makes lying awake, uncomfy and cold worth it.
If Didsbury Son, with whom I shared a 5.15 chat amid stereo crying as I trotted inelegantly down for milk could pop out to one of our many Costa Expresses and magic up an AiryFairy treat – this would be as near perfect as a Persian Carpet*.
Half an hour and the alarm will go, heralding a charge through changing, feeding, charging around and tea shlurping whose poetic chaos will be repeated in millions of homes. Across the world Didsbury Dads will think of their brood with one single thought. Can I get a kip on the way to work?
*Persian Carpets were always made with an intentional fault because only God could be perfect…