Take a friend to work day

School: Hymn: Edelweiss (it's national Pantheism Day); Teachers moved to tears by beauty of singing: 1 (not me, naturally); Number of vomiting children in recorder lesson: two.

"This job isn't any good," says Francis, studying a letter with an A starred attempt at a D'Arcy sneer, though minus the britches. "It's a two hour commute."

"Why, have you been offered it?" Forget jumping guns. Frankly, if there's a water pistol in sight I can clear it by a good two metres. I am absolutely thrilled.

"No," he says. "It's just that it's a nightmare journey. No use even thinking about it."

Oh. I take a very deep breath. Then another, while praying for the Tact Fairy to tap me on the head with her biggest, most effective wand. Right this minute.

"But Francis," I say, and hear, with worry, that my voice has already climbed several semi-tones up the hysterical soprano register. "Why don't you see if you get the job first, and then let's worry about the journey there?"

"You complained enough about the last one," he replies. "If I recall correctly, you said you couldn't manage on your own in the mornings. And this one would mean leaving a good hour earlier."

At this rate, what with Francis' semi-courtroom language, and my rising voice, we'll need separate legal representation just to get through breakfast.

"I see, so it's all my fault now, is it?" We're on number 120b from the Bumper Book of Domestic Rows, now completely revised and enlarged to include an all-new redundancy spat section.

Forget 'take your daughter to school to work day'. What I need now is a 'take a friend back home day'. Think what a difference it would make. Especially now. Somebody to say, "Francis, she's very, very upset. What she needs is to go to bed now with a lovely coffee and the papers. And perhaps later on when she's feeling better, a good-looking naked man."

Mind you, I suppose it would cut both ways, and presumably, Francis would have a friend home too, and he'd tell me to stop trying to have the best of all worlds and accept my husband as the miracle-working home and life juggling expert he undoubtedly is.

Oh, well, it was a nice idea, though one undoubtedly requiring more thorough research before the national launch.

Later on, I collect Deborah from school. She hands me her lunchbag, schoolbag, music bag, recorder and coat and saunters off. "Look at Patsy," I say. "She's being so helpful and helping her mummy by carrying her own things." Deborah eyes Patsy with a jaundiced expression. "Good for her," she says, and carries straight on.