The Shroders in Florida

I hate Ikea.

The furniture is awful, it’s cheap furniture that isn’t cheap and you do all of the hard work yourself but that isn’t my main problem with it. My main problem with Ikea is the way the store is set up. You get trapped in this maze of mediocrity, slowly getting deeper and deeper, further and further in this absolute hell hole and before you know it you are trapped and can’t find a way out. You are confused and lost, you don’t know what you are doing and you just want this hell to end.

The kids went back to “School” this week and I went back to work. Which means the incredibly important task of educating my children falls to a combination of Laura and a 3 inch square video chat window of three teachers they have never met. Truly a perfect solution in imperfect times….. The Ikea of education, the school give you the materials, but you do all the heavy lifting and hard work yourself and it clearly takes two people to do properly but you half ass it with one, mess it up and then spend most of the day swearing.

We had some good news last week that my work authorization was through and we now had legal status to be in the US, moving us up one rung on the legality status ahead of the caravan of people crossing the Rio Grande, but slightly below any of Donald Trump’s wives (ex or current) prior to them marrying him.

This meant that I had a start date for my new job, which was good because I was getting bored sitting around doing nothing, but bad because I was getting paid to do so. The grass really is always greener on the other side for me. 6 months ago if you had said that I could stay home all day, get up when I want and still pay all our bills and do stuff I would have bitten your hand off. After 5 weeks of living that dream I was desperate to get out of the house.

So off I went yesterday, at the ungodly hour of 7am, a time I hadn’t seen since March 13th, all suited up, fresh haircut, I even had a shave. Felt like I had a purpose, spring in my step. Unfortunately my start date coincided with the exact start date of the kids return to virtual learning, which means I got away free and clear from the debacle of 30 7 year olds on a zoom call for 6 hours.

Now a side note here, I pay next to no tax compared to the UK. Like seriously hardly any. In the UK I would lose 50% of my pay check, here 20% tops. A not unrelated point here is that teachers are criminally and I mean criminally underpaid. The school, which is A rated so gets the most money (and really is very good) have to resort to a seemingly never ending fund raising program. The School principal has had to be dunked in water, duct taped to a wall, literally anything to make money. I would seriously not be surprised to hear he is out walking the streets at night pimping out meth heads to keep the lights on.

The school does however manage to find enough money to provide some 20,000 kids with laptops or iPads and on Saturday we picked up two of them. This meant we had to have a chat with Harriet on internet safety, a meandering tightrope walk where she threatened to punch adults who pretend they are kids online and somehow managed to Google pictures of JLo’s ass. She really is a lost cause already, I am resigned to the fact she will have an OnlyFans account in 12 years. If you don’t know what OnlyFans is don’t google it at work please.

So back to the main story. School started at 8.45. I received a text message at 8.43, Harriet had spilled chocolate milk all over herself, the table and Fred’s brand new laptop. This was followed by a text at 8.44 from Fred, who has somehow managed to procure his own phone from somewhere, telling me that “Mum is very angry”

8.50, next text. The system didn’t work, nobody can log in.

The next 4 hours followed a similar pattern. Facetime calls from the kids at random times, texts from Laura telling me that this was shit and she couldn’t do it. Then that the school wasn’t set up for one parent at home and only parents of one child could ever make it work. All while trying to convince the new office I now run that I am a professional, calm leader.

Mid afternoon there was some background chatter on one of the kids call, a parent hadn’t hit the mute button and was shouting at her little darling. Laura was at peak Laura when this happened and shouted something along the lines of “Oh shut the fuck up will you” whilst forgetting that she wasn’t on mute either and 30 10 year olds heard that.

Normally if a person starts a new job, when they get in from that first day there might be few questions asked about the day, how it went, what the people were like etc. Not this time though and quite rightly so. It was all about a debrief on the school day.

Somehow there were still things to discuss despite how much contact we had had during the day and I listened intently and a little concerned about how it was going to pan out. That was until Fred blurted out he had seen a naked man today.

A very odd and slightly troubling thing for a 10 year old boy to say and something I pounced on immediately. Before I could question my son on this though a somewhat exhausted Laura jumped in to give me the full story.

Midway through the day just as it was settling down and everyone’s little attentive faces were listening to their talking head teachers a shadowy figure appeared behind one of the kids. He wandered to the fridge, opened it up and grabbed a cold beer. All very normal, even if it was 2pm. The only problem was he was stark. bollock. naked. Laura explained that she didn’t think he was totally naked, but Fred was adamant. In an usual use of the anatomically correct word rather than the adult slang he let me know in no uncertain terms that he “saw the man’s penis”. I wouldn’t mind but it wasn’t even on his lesson.

So despite all the warnings and teaching the kids about internet safety, all of the filters and education, all the make sure you are safe online, my 10 year old boy thought he saw an adult mans cock at school on Monday.

He definitely didn’t though. Laura had seen it all and it was just a guy in shorts, grabbing a beer. I was obviously very relieved by this but Fred has inherited one of my least pleasant but most fun traits. He never, ever lets the truth get in the way of a good story.

I am a big fan of technology, I think that in general my life has been greatly improved by man improving on nature or using science to better all of our lives. A couple of examples of this include the internet, something I couldn’t have lived without during lockdown and the incredible laser contraption the doctor used to weld my retina back to my eyeball. Both life changing scientific achievements for me, proof that with some dedication by people much smarter than me everyone’s life is improved.

This is particularly true when it comes to nature for me. I largely hate the “great outdoors”, and this is only compounded now I live somewhere where pretty much anything can kill you. Snakes, Gators, Sharks, it’s not quite Australia, but it’s a long way from Canvey Island, where all you need to be wary of is the gang of 14 year old’s hanging around by the lake waiting to stab you with blunt screwdrivers.

I hate no part of nature more than the beach. A very controversial opinion I am sure, but humor me for a second, and while you do, know that Laura has literally just shouted at Fred “Open your buttocks, I can’t get the sand out if you clench”

Today, we went to a lovely beach on the Atlantic coast of Florida, just a few miles south of the famous Cocoa Beach. The weather was perfect, we were with great friends everything was set for a lovely afternoon. There were some cruise ships anchored off shore and the scene could not be more picturesque. That is if you could ignore the many metric tons of seaweed dumped along the shoreline.

My first problem with the beach is the sand. Do people really like sand? Today Harriet took it upon herself to get buried up to her neck. A fun childish past time, everyone laughing and everyone having fun with Harriet. Only those people don’t have to get all the bloody sand out of her hair which is now matted like a persian rug. They won’t be there when she is screaming in agony as Laura rips the hairbrush through her tangled birds nest with the touch and finesse of the Incredible Hulk.

And what sand isn’t still in Harriet’s hair is either down her swimsuit, something she will openly tell anyone who will listen, in between Fred’s ass cheeks or in my car, where it will somehow stay for the next 9 months. Fred will do the bare minimum of showering so I am assuming sand will still be stuck up his ass when COVID is over.

The second thing is the sea. I am a massive fan of cooling off with a swim, picture me floating round like a manatee, beer in hand, Astros cap over my face, it’s a picture of summer bliss. What I don’t like is the following

a.) not being able to see more than a foot into the water

b.) having wildlife brush past me and my pasty white legs and not having a clue what it is

c.) the never ending taste and smell of salt

d.) knowing I am swimming in other peoples waste

But people don’t piss in the sea Dave, I can hear you say, lying to both me and more importantly yourself. I know they do, because I do it and also because about 2 hours ago Fred tapped me on the shoulder to tell me “Hey Dad, I am just going in to the water for a minute, I need a pee”

The next thing I hate about the beach, the blistering hot sun pounding down on you for hour after hour. There’s no shade, it’s brutal. People bring umbrellas and gazebos to cover themselves up, loading up their cars full of stuff, umbrellas sticking out the car windows, boogie boards strapped to the roof, their kids sitting in an “s” shape in the back wedged between a cooler and 6 packs of bud light. All of that stuff get’s unpacked and carried across the sand, set up, achieves the square root of fuck all, then has to be taken down and wedged back in to the car. Only when it’s put back, it’s full of sand.

We make sure that the kids have plenty of sunscreen on and constantly reapply, but until you have dragged a 7 year old out of the sea, made her reapply the 4th coat of sunscreen and then watched her roll around in the sand, her arms still sticky from the most recent application, you haven’t known true pointlessness.

So here is my solution to all of this and it is simple. Waterparks.

Orlando is home to no less than 5 world class waterparks. Places where if you want to crash around in waves you can, without the risk of a rip current taking you to Cozumel. If you want to build a sand castle, you can, and then shower off the sand after. Where if it gets too hot, you can just go into a shop or restaurant and have an ice cream or a beer. Where you do not even have to take a towel because they will give you one.

These places are also only 20 minutes from my house, not at least an hour away. My hatred of the beach is only matched by my love of the man made improved version, Typhoon Lagoon.

A very elegant solution to my problem, but like all my great ideas there is a problem. Laura doesn’t like them quite as much. I have never understood why, but over the last few years I have got to the bottom of it, mainly during our regular conversations of me moaning about going to the beach and her telling me to stop being a miserable bastard.

Laura hates waterparks because of the slides. Apparently once when she was a child she went on the slide at our local swimming pool, a place where you get a free case of legionnaires disease with every fun swim. This pool had a slide, I remember when they built it and charged a pound a go, it was incredible. Well it turns out that Laura got stuck in it once, apparently this harrowing experience put her off for life. I have some sympathy for this. A seagull once landed on my back at school, one of those massive ones, like an albatrosses big brother. Scared the shit out of me and I have literally never recovered, so I do understand childhood trauma.

The second reason is because with out fail, every time we go to a waterpark Laura has a wardrobe malfunction. Seriously more people have seen Laura’s left tit from it falling out of her bathing suit than have seen the last series of Game of Thrones. She always makes me go on the slides first for some reason, so I finish the ride, go to get out of the splash pool, turn around and every single time just get an eyeful of big white tit. Now over the last 13 years I have seen plenty of Laura’s big white left tit, but for some reason the combination of her blind panic from being on the slide and her obliviousness to her public nudity, makes these particular instances the best time to see her big white tit.

I don’t know how we are going to work this out to be honest. Florida is almost nothing but beach, so we will obviously be going again, I will obviously moan about it, my car will never be truly rid of sand. We will probably go to Typhoon Lagoon again as well, probably once a year, so the tradition of public nudity can continue. It really is a first world problem, but one I need to solve.

So while technology could improve the “beach” experience for me by basically eliminating it, not all technology is good. Harriet had her first guitar lesson today over Zoom. To say it was a shambles would be under selling it. All she wants to do is strum along and make up songs, she has no interest in learning how to play and as the first lesson was entirely how to tune the guitar I can’t imagine lesson two happening. The best part of the lesson was when after explaining for 15 minutes how to tune a guitar, the guy just said “Download this app, it will do it for you”

Technology, eliminating pointless jobs, one by one

As another week of me sitting around on “sabbatical” begins I am genuinely starting to think the last few months are getting to me. My motivation levels to do almost anything are zero, the couch has a Dave shaped dent in it and I am not sure I have got properly dressed for weeks.

This is spreading a bit around the house as well. I asked Laura if she wanted to go away for a day or two this week, stay at a resort, lounge around by the pool and a few cocktails and she replied that she couldn’t really be bothered, I was pleased with this response because nor could I.

This means we haven’t done much over the last week or so, but as usual the things we have done have not gone exactly to plan.

Laura had arranged an evening out with her friends last week, just a few outside drinks at our local bar/restaurant. This venue has a special place in my heart. There was a period of time I ate there 4 times a week, I watched every England game at the last World Cup there, when Laura goes there with out me and gets the bill/check they identify her as “Dave’s wife”. It is basically the cheers bar and I am Norm.

When I do go there it is often spontaneous, I will receive or make a phone call, ask for permission, jump in the shower and be there 20 minutes later. It’s a very simply process. Whenever Laura goes on a night out it it is planned out better than the D-Day landings, if never as successful.

Laura decided she was going to ride her bike, so along with the usual minute by minute planning of our entire day so she could be ready to leave for 5.30, I was tasked with checking multiple weather reports from multiple sources to ensure biking was an option. At one point I thought I was going to have to send up a weather balloon to confirm that the glorious cloudless skies were going to hold.

My reward for playing weatherman and actually feeding my children for once was I got my usual game of golf on Friday. Now when Laura goes out, I have to help plan, drive her there, deal with the inevitable two day hangover that follows. When I go out, I have to bring home food.

On my way home on Friday afternoon I made my usual call to ask what was required for dinner and where I should go to get it. The phone rang and was answered pretty quickly. Instead of my wife’s dulcet Essex accent, I was met with a thick New York one, and a fairly stressed sounding one at that.

I hadn’t dialled the wrong number, instead it was Laura’s friend, walking partner and the reason my cell phone bill could fund a small army. The kids were playing together and had used the pool.

I asked to speak to Laura and apparently she was “busy”. The kids have been on holiday for weeks, we can’t go anywhere, there is nothing Laura could be doing to be busy in my mind. Some back and forward ensured and I was discouraged from “rushing home” and told that we would “Sort dinner out later”

I always get a bit nervy when I am told to not come home, it is very unlike Laura. Normally if I am out of the house for 25 minutes I am getting texts telling me the kids have recreated The Ultimate Warrior vs Hulk Hogan from Wrestlemania 6 over a phone charger or that there is a gas leak 5 doors down and I have to get home to sort it. It turns out that this was no different.

I made my way home anyway and walked in the house. The kids were unusually quiet, there was a sense of fear pouring from their bedrooms. They had definitely been told to go there and not leave.

I get to the living room, it is empty. Something is definitely going on.

And then I see it.

We have a patio/lanai at the back of our house, it is just over 300 square foot, all covered by a roof and screen, it is pretty large and the pool is sat out there. This 300 square foot area is covered with 4 inches of water. Not a few puddles, not some overspill from the pool, 4 inches of water everywhere and in the middle of it all, Laura standing there with a giant squeegy tool trying to sweep it all out of the screen.

I asked a couple of cursory questions about how this happened and why 400 gallons of water was sploshing about in my back yard and was met with the usual response when Laura has messed up. Hostility.

A side note, Laura is the master of getting away with mistakes. If I mess up and she questions me I apologize and take my bollocking. If Laura messes up and I ask she goes on the attack. The line “I know a messed up that is punishment enough” is spat out with such venom that any further digging from me just ends up with me somehow being in trouble.

It turns out that the kids played in the pool, It needed filling up and so Laura put the hose in and went indoors. She then got involved in a very in depth conversation, again probably about what an amazing husband I am, and forgot. Allegedly this was just for 20 minutes. Now I am no scientist, but if that was 20 minutes of water then there is a problem with the water pressure in my shower because I’ve had more powerful showers standing under a watering can.

Complaining about it was pointless, so I went inside, left them to it and ordered Chick-fil-a, I had seen this very similar scenario before and moaning got me nowhere.

Last summer we lived in a townhouse with a lovely green out the front. The first day of the school holidays they had a party for the kids with games and food and it lasts all day. Laura volunteered us to provide the power and water for the 25 foot water slide.

The party started at about 11am. I got in from work at 6pm, walked through the house and to the green. As I set foot on the grass I sunk about 8 inches into the sodden turf. I looked up and about 40 kids were head to toe covered in wet mud. It was like Glastonbury for kids. The hose had been on for 7 hours and literally flooded the green. It was still on.

Now I don’t mind a bit of fun, but Jesus Christ I was in the hole for about a $200 water bill and another $150 for some new shoes that I had ruined.

It was then that I learned for the final time not to question Laura, because she lost her shit at me complaining about that. So in hindsight it was a good thing that we couldn’t be bothered to go away this week, I’ve got another ridiculous water bill coming.

I don’t know if the UK is inherently safer than the US or if people in the UK just do not have the same level of fear pumped in to them as they do here, but everything is a crisis in America and people often focus on the worst possible outcome.

There are a lot of disaster whores in the US media and local news is the best/worst for this. I’ve written before about the ridiculous Tropical Storm warnings. I’ve gone out on the advice of Brian Shiels the weatherman more times than I care to admit and bought 400 bottles of water, enough canned food to feed an army and several pocket knives to get me through the pending Armageddon that he has predicted. Every single time without fail it just turned out to be a fairly average wet day on Canvey Island.

This fear is even more evident when it comes to home invasion. Since I moved to the USA in January 2015 I have lived in 6 houses/apartments, all 6 have had incredibly complex burglar alarm systems, despite the fact it is 100% legal to murder in cold blood anybody who enters your house uninvited. Lately I’ve been praying my neighbor accidentally stumbles through my door one night, or at least his noisy dog.

I never had a burglar alarm in the UK, I always thought it made more sense to just buy the sign that says “Protected by ADT” rather than the actual alarm system. I mean what would the sign cost, $10? The alarm system costs about $100 a month.

We don’t have the alarm system set up right now. So I thought we just had a keypad in the wall that if I wanted to organize and set up was capable of being used. Turns out I was wrong and I found out in the worse possible way.

There was a bad lightning storm the other night and there was a loud strike right by our house. All the power went out and a couple of minutes later everything reset. This was at 2am. Gradually as everything came back on I started to hear an annoying beep.

I woke Laura up to see if she could hear it, but the combination of her almost complete and utter total hearing loss and the fact she sleeps like I’m slipping her rohypnal on an hourly basis meant she was not bothered by it. I on the other hand was wide awake and the regular beep every 20 seconds was pissing me off.

I got up to try and stop this noise and first stop was the alarm panel in our utility room. That was the culprit so I thought I was halfway there to solving my problem. I turned off the power to the unit and went back to bed.

The good people at ADT though, they want to keep you safe when there is a powercut and so the battery back up kicked in and the noise just carried on and on. It was like Chinese water torture, not that Laura noticed, she had slipped back in to her coma.

Now I will admit after 20 minutes I was angry, tired and angry. I got back up and just hit some buttons on the panel. The combination of me swearing and cursing and the beeping actually woke Laura up so I now had an audience as my meltdown began.

Just as I finished mashing the keypad Laura gave some fairly decent advice, that I shouldn’t do that in case I accidentally armed the alarm. Unfortunately she gave me that advice exactly 4 seconds after I had inadvertently set the alarm I didn’t even know worked. That was a great thing to have happen as the second we moved the beep turned in to an ear piercing alarm that would have woken the street.

The combination of tiredness, frustration and now utter fear that the police were going to turn up meant I had a bit of breakdown. I started to panic and could not think of a way to stop this absolute nightmare. Laura ran out and turned all the power off to the house and there was silence, beautiful silence.

I phoned up the alarm company who had literally no idea who I was. 25 minutes of my English accent trying to explain that I didn’t have a contract with them and could not prove I lived at my house, but needed them to help me stop the ear drum piercing noise followed. I’ve had less frustrating calls at 3am.

The woman gave me a number of codes to put in to the keypad to reset it. Not a single one of these codes caused anything other than the alarm to just go off, yet we persisted with this utter bollocks just long enough for me to thank the woman for nothing and hang up.

She did say though that worst case scenario just to flick the fuse/breaker off that supplied power to the alarm and it would stop and maybe they could get someone round in 3 days. A brilliant solution, except that meant no power to our bedroom, ensuite or closet.

At this point the red mist had come down and I had lost my shit.

In our closet there is a panel, I believed at that moment that the whole alarm systems electronics was behind this panel. i couldn’t be sure though because we had no power to the room and it was 3am. Total darkness. 15 minutes later I had found a screwdriver and taken this panel off just by the light of Laura’s phone and my sheer will power.

This didn’t work either. Behind that panel was the entire communication network for the house, cables everywhere, nothing to do with the alarm whatsoever. Complete waste of time and effort.

I’d been up about 2 hours by this point, the power was off to the AC unit so it was hot, I couldn’t even turn the fan on because again, no power. Just I was about to give up and resign myself to no power in the bedroom for 3 days I saw a box and on that box was a sticker that read “ADT”

This box was basically on the ceiling, 10 feet off the ground. I went and got the steps. It’s pitch dark, so hot my chest hair has matted together like a gap year student in Goa’s dreadlocks but I must be nearly there.

I undo the screws, swearing and cursing with every turn of the completely unfit for purpose screwdriver. Once the box is open I can see a battery. I was looking at some wiring 10 feet off the ground, the only light coming from the 5 foot 3 inch tall Laura shining her iPhone 7 flashlight approximately 9 inches away from where it needs to be. There are some wires going to the battery, I am tired and frustrated, I just ripped all the wires out of the battery. I’ve no idea if this is the right thing to do, but at that point that was all I had left.

We put the power back on and the beeping seemed to have stopped. If I can cool down and get to sleep quickly I might still get two hours sleep before I have to get up. I went and changed, because frankly my sweat wicking boxer shorts had failed dismally. As I went back in to the closet to get changed I heard another beep, and then another, and another.

I don’t mind admitting that at this point I lost my shit completely. Laura made some comment about minding my blood pressure which only pissed me off even more, especially as she had spent the last 2 hours telling me that I shouldn’t have armed the alarm and when she wasn’t doing that she was shining the light juuusst in the wrong spot, so I got the slightest bit of light, but not enough to be worthwhile.

I got back up on the ladder and there was one more wire that was still connected. This wire ran to a plug, simple. Just pull the plug out and go to bed, ignore Laura laughing at the mess I was in and all will be good.

I tried to pull the plug out and it wouldn’t move. Some absolute cockwomble had screwed the plug into the wall. In order to remove it I had to unscrew it from the wall and the screws were about the size of the screws in Fred’s glasses.

For the next 30 minutes I was using a steak knife to try and unscrew two cross head screws in a plug in almost complete and utter darkness.

My life was in infinite more danger from the stress induced heart attack caused by trying to fix the alarm than from any intruder into our house that is in a gated community. I was going to call the alarm company and get it all set up, but when I went to look at the mess I had caused the next day it is beyond repair.

So with no alarm system and Nancy Alvarez from Channel 9 news whipping up hysteria on the news every morning I decided to take some strong action. The morning after this with Nancy’s dulcet tones telling me about a gas station being robbed 50 miles from my house I sat down and spent 4 hours doing my hunting license so I can buy a pump action shotgun. That and the sign outside my house saying I have an alarm should be more than enough, and if it isn’t I’ll send Laura out to tell the intruder all the things he is doing wrong.

The last few days have been eventful, something that if I don’t write I at least think every few days. With all of us at home all of the time there is seemingly no end to the constant adventures or things that piss me off. It’s Monday night as I write this, and it is providing me some much-needed therapy.

Let’s start this tale on Friday. Friday was a good day for me, mainly because as regular as a Monday Curry night, I play golf on Friday. You may or may not remember that I have been trying to score less than 90 at golf despite the best efforts of the rest of the Shroder clan to stop me. Well Friday I shot 87, didn’t get sunburnt and won $50 from my playing partners. So needless to say when I drove home after the round I was in a very good mood. It was a bit odd though, because I text Laura and said I was nearly finished and she gave me the green light to stay and have a couple of beers after I finished. This never, ever, happens. Usually I have to order her dinner on the 18th tee to ensure she doesn’t go hungry, but on further questioning it turns out she had a friend round.

So I got home and Laura and her friend were sitting on the back porch drinking. It was about 6pm and they had been there since 4pm. I had no beers in the house and in the spirit of joining in I had to drink White Claw, Black Cherry flavor.. This goes against everything I stand for. It tastes like someone has taken a sparkling water on a short tour of the Skittles factory. Not a long enough tour for the water to actually taste like Skittles, just the faintest hint of fake fruit.

Fortunately Laura’s friends husband (My friend, but for the purpose of detail I thought it important to know that these two people were married and we aren’t running some sort of match.com for drunks in our back garden) turned up with two cases of Coors light.

What was a very civil chat around our garden table, with a couple of drinks and some background music ended up turning into a 6 hour session where a bottle of Barcardi a bottle of Malibu and 18 pint size bottles of Coors disappeared from my kitchen. We put together a playlist of songs we wanted to listen to the next day which happened to be Independence Day. I’ve got new neighbors and they have a dog that barks every night at 11pm. It barks right by my window and could be considered annoying. Well it is definitely not as annoying as four middle aged people arguing the toss over the best Luther Vandross song at midnight.

We made some plans to watch fireworks, have a BBQ and listen to the great new playlist we put together for Independence Day and everyone went their own way at about 12.30am, all a little merry.

I woke up on Saturday 4th July in pretty good shape. No hangover, Laura had made proper British Bacon and the world was a great place! The sun was shining we had some plans for Independence Day and all was positive with the world.

Unfortunately all was not as rosy in the other house and any plans for a boozy 4th July with the worlds greatest playlist had to be put on hold as Laura’s friend could barely keep down a slice of toast. This is a delightful change of pace in that relationship. Laura usually is the one who gets the 3 day hangover, so while it was a shame we couldn’t all celebrate losing the American War of Independence together part of me was relieved that I wasn’t dealing with hungover Laura.

What we did instead was to take a stroll around our neighborhood and freeload everyone else’s fireworks. As soon as the sun went down we were out walking around watching some pretty spectacular explosions. The green outside our house had a particularly impressive display.

Managed by a drunk man in an Eagle tank top, lighting the fireworks with the end of his cigarette, they were incredible, professional-level fireworks. It was here that I realized that Fred is a bit of a coward. Fred is nearly 10, an age where fireworks should be some of the best things you have ever seen in your life. I think that in a previous life Fred was in the trenches during WWI. Every explosion saw him literally run down the street. We gave him a sparkler and he almost certainly shit his pants. Harriet wasn’t much better, just shouting at the top of her lungs to the man running the show that it was dangerous and he should stop. Right couple of party animals our kids.

We carried on a bit of a walk, to be honest, it was pointless. We live in an area with a lot of trees, so you couldn’t see any fireworks, but you just got enveloped by all of the smoke. It was like a scene out of Full Metal Jacket. Just smoke, explosions, and people (my children) screaming. We quickly got home and somehow the story that was told when we got in was how amazing it was and what a good time everyone had. Trust me, it was neither of those things.

Sunday came and I was going to try and sneak out for some more golf. Buoyed on by my great round Friday I had it in my head that with just a bit more encouragement as a child I could have made it pro. I didn’t pluck up the courage to mention my plans to Laura until after the West Ham match and by then it was too late and in a moment of utter madness when I was trying to get Harriet to leave me alone during the football I had promised her I would play Monopoly.

What the hell was I thinking? Monopoly is an awful idea, a terrible game to play with a 9 and 7 year old and to make it even worse I had fallen asleep on the sofa and Harriet woke me up to play. So perfect storm, a game that is 99% guaranteeing an argument coupled with me being woken up and being a bit tired and irritable.

We have no less than 5 different versions of Monopoly in our house. Frozen Monopoly, Marvel Superheroes, Fortnite, A version which consists of the properties Laura used to manage in London (that’s a fun evening) and the version we decided to play yesterday. Voice control.

The Voice Control version stops any cheating. It has an Alexa type device that you talk to and say things like “Buy Park Place” or “Pass Go” and it tracks everything, who owns what, who has to pay who. It’s the version less likely to cause disagreements because it is impossible to cheat. It is also the version I am most likely to through across the room.

The device is really clever, especially if you have an American accent. I don’t. So whilst it is 100% accurate when it comes to money and who owns what, it takes me at least 15 goes to get it to understand what I mean and I am the best at it. My tired, pissed off voice shouting at this Alexa shaped, battery operated piece of crap “Buy St. James” followed by the annoying voice replying “Hazel already owns St Charles”.

Firstly, who the hell is Hazel. Secondly for the 25th time, I said St James, not St Charles. At one point I said “Buy New York” and somehow it heard “Buy Ventnor”. I hate this thing, with a passion even greater than I have for people who were born in South London but support Man Utd.

Laura filmed the entire thing, sending clips of me getting more and more frustrated to my family, every laugh pissing me off more and more.

Harriet smashed us as well. By the end she had 10 times more money than everyone else and owned more hotels than Conrad Hilton.

That brings us to today. I decided we were going to go to the Gulf Coast and go on a dolphin boat tour, where we go out and spot dolphins, manatees and enjoy the beautiful waterways. We drove down there in my truck, had a decent if neither spectacular or appropriate lunch at Hooters and boarded the boat.

It was really good! We saw wild dolphins the second we left the dock and had a great 90 minutes buzzing around looking at multi million dollar houses, wildlife and dickheads falling off jet skis. The weather was fantastic and the boat trip was so much fun, for Laura and I. The kids had a succession of bullshit arguments about who had the most Diet Coke, or whether Harriet could pronounce the word miserable properly. About 40 minutes in, just as we got to the uninhabited island I genuinely thought about jumping out and creating some sort of Tom Hanks Castaway type new life for myself on a sandbar spitting distance from Tampa.

One thing you should know about me is I hate the beach. I hate sand, I hate salt water, I hate the feeling of fish brushing up against me, I hate not having somewhere comfortable to sit, I hate my pasty skin cooking all day with no shade. I also in the main, hate other people.

I relented and gave the kids an hour on the beach, just enough time for them to decant half of Madeira beach into my truck, also just enough time for us to get hungry enough to visit Laura’s favorite restaurant Rib City. Laura loves ribs about as much as I hate the beach.

We drove around for 40 minutes and got to the restaurant, a place we have been to so many times over the last 13 years, a place we have fond memories of. We have taken friends there, my Dad and Step Mum, my grandparents, it’s nothing fancy, but we love it there and have always enjoyed it. As I pull up it’s pitch dark, completely shut down, the only one of the 25 different Rib City restaurants to close down. Another faceless victim of COVID.

By this time, I have had enough. The kids have argued all day, mainly about nothing, I can’t get the meal I want and I have a two and a half hour drive home through multiple thunder storms listening to the same 5 songs on the radio.

About 30 minutes out from home Harriet asks if instead of getting food from a drive thru can we go in to the restaurant. It’s getting late, so I asked her why. Apparently she was fine, but would need to go to the bathroom when we got to the restaurant. A bit of questioning later and she tells us she is fine, it’s not urgent.

10 minutes later a little voice pipes up from the back seat. “Mummy, sorry”. Laura asks what for. Long story short, my car stinks of piss and Laura spent the last 15 minutes of the drive home with a bucket which 2 hours previous made a beautiful sand castle, full of a 7 year old’s urine.

I’d give anything for a quiet week.

As I sit and start to write this I am looking across my living room. I was 39 years old before I managed to become mature enough to save up enough money to buy my own home. Before I met Laura she was already more mature than I am and owned her own home, I lived there, I paid the mortgage when Laura stopped work and for all intents and purposes it was my home, but I didn’t own it.

So all that being said I am quite proud that I managed to buy a house here, I remember the day we signed the paperwork and I actually felt like a grown up for 20 minutes. Home ownership anywhere comes with bills and things you don’t have to worry about when you rent and after 10 months of owning this house I’ve had enough.

We live in a gated community, it basically means that we just lock the gates and live in this bubble like something out of the Truman Show. It is a complete illusion of safety. Literally anybody can get in through the gates at any time, by either tailgating the car in front when they break in or walking through one of the many pedestrian gates that don’t shut properly. These are the responsibility of our Home Owners Association

It’s great though because for this imaginary other world we live in I get to pay the princely sum of $700 a quarter. $700 a quarter and I don’t actually know where it goes. This doesn’t bother me most of the time, I don’t have to think about it, but today I had to pay it and I am pissed off about it. I started to think about what I get for this obscene amount of money and I got more and more pissed off. To the point I went online and found the budget for the HOA to understand exactly where the money went. 45 minutes of looking through spreadsheets and I am still none the wiser.

They did put up some no parking signs outside my house which everyone completely ignores and instead parks across my drive so Laura can’t get off and then has a massive “venting” session at me about.

The $700 a quarter HOA fees are the least of it to be honest. Constantly having to repair things is getting on my tits as well. Air Conditioning prime example. We had an issue with our unit the other week, someone came round and quoted me $6,000 to fix it. I wasn’t having that, so I bought a wet vac with the intention of fixing it myself. I do not know the first thing about ac units, I have not looked at it and I have no intention to to be honest.

Today though there was the typical Armageddon like storm about 3 o’clock and lightning struck really close. I know it was close because I was having a little afternoon nap now I have absolutely nothing to do with my days and it woke me up with a bit of a start. About 3 hours later I was sitting right where I am now and realized it was hotter than a McDonald’s Apple Pie. It turns out the air conditioner was broken.

Somehow I managed to fiddle around with some wires and got it back working, but it is an all to timely reminder that I am going to be sinking another $6k into this house pretty soon, the new TV is going to have to wait.

It’s OK though because we have a way to raise the money, that doesn’t involve me selling a kidney or me being one of the first people to trial an experimental COVID vaccine.

Some people might remember Laura fancies herself as a bit of a wheeler dealer, a saleswoman. I have made a living selling one thing or another for the last 20 years, Houses, Timeshare, Recruitment Services, but Laura will tell you to this day she is the best salesman in this house. She sold a load of our crap before we moved to America on Facebook and in a world where she could have any hobby or activity imaginable to fill her free time she has taken to selling other peoples shit. This has been going on for about 3 weeks now.

As I peer over the top of the laptop I can see a cardboard box and two full trash bags of other peoples shit. To be clear, this isn’t stuff other people wanted to sell. It is shit they don’t want, would happily have thrown away and is now sitting in my front room while Laura takes occasional photos and sticks on 3 selling pages. We live in a country where everything is cheap and disposable, nothing is really built to last, but you can buy new stuff and it won’t break the bank.

Today I had to sit and watch Laura take a picture of an 18 inch plush Unicorn. She put it up for $5. Who in the blue hell is buying second hand kids teddies for $5 off Facebook. I tell you who. Serial Killers.

We moved in to a gated community to stop just anyone being able to wander around where we live, stroll up to our front door and look in to our house. I mean Jesus Christ 50% of the people here have guns, so why wouldn’t we want a bit of extra security. We just negate that by constantly adding people we don’t know to our approved visitor list to pick up, again, other… peoples.. shit..

You also have to wonder the caliber of person who is picking up their 5th item from Laura’s little shop of horrors. Right now, apart from the Unicorn, we have a woman’s rain coat and a kids manicure set and some used bath mats. Who the hell is buying this? She sold a second hand trash can once, it was the most successful sale ever, $80!

When, invariably, it doesn’t sell Laura then drops the price to zero and gives the stuff away. Regular customers have figured this out and just wait until it’s free then just pick up a carrier bag full of stuff. One lady has done this about 6 times, she works at Burger King so instead of cash to go towards the security gates we let everyone through, we get left over Burger King desserts. The kids love it, diabetic Dave, not so much.

To be honest it doesn’t bother me too much, except for the non stop, constant Facebook notifications I get whenever anything is put up for sale. I get very few notifications and when I get one I grab my phone pretty quick to see what it is. The sense of disappointment of it being another (sometimes 3rd hand!) item being put up for sale is matched only by the disappointment I used to get when a text came in and it was Pizza Hut telling me about a 2 for 1 deal on a Tuesday.

It could be worse though, at least she is trying to get rid of the stuff, her Dad has a garage full of crap that one day I am going to have to empty out.

As of tomorrow I am starting on a pretty much open ended vacation, there are a few “issues” with the visa processing system right now and so this backlog means that I am officially a tourist in Florida and so I can’t work. We aren’t sure how long this is going to last but it is going to be at least a month. A month off in Florida, during summer, sounds pretty good right?

My plans are pretty simple, play as much golf as I can, bit of swimming, few nights out on the beer, get up at 10am most days, just relax really.

My plans and reality are so far from aligned it is ridiculous.

I am currently sitting in the front room while Harriet has some nondescript cartoon on and is singing a song about “flossing her butt”, Laura is planning a photo competition for the kids to keep them occupied and Fred, well I haven’t seen Fred since February. Entertaining the kids has now become everyone’s full time job.

This past Sunday I was trying to find a way to hit some golf balls on the sly. I didn’t want to straight up ask Laura if I could sneak out for 4 hours for the second time in 3 days, because frankly I am neither a masochist nor an idiot, but I had been in the house for 36 hours straight. I had the bright idea that I would take Fred and the girls. Fred could bring his clubs that haven’t been used since his birthday in 2018 and Laura and Harriet could drive the buggy around and have some fun in the sun.

Turns out I am both a masochist and an idiot.

We loaded up the truck and headed over to the golf course, it was about 3.30pm. As we sat our asses down on the black leather interior of the truck it became clear that it was hot. So hot that I couldn’t touch the steering wheel and that Laura still has burns on the top of her legs 2 days later. Air con on full blast, the car cooled down just as we pulled in to the golf course.

Fred and I got out and went in to pay. Finally some good news! We could play, and it was free for Fred. Bad news though it was another $25 for Laura to have a cart to drive round in, plus about $14 in soft drinks to get us round. Second problem, we had to wait 45 minutes to tee off. I found Laura a cart in the shade, sat her there with Harriet and the literally covered in sunscreen Fred and I went for a little practice putt.

Fred is a fairly talented sportsman. He is pretty good at football (soccer), very good at cricket, has a great arm and decent hand eye coordination. He has the touch however, of a rapist.

For those who don’t play golf, or whose only experience of golf is mini golf, putting is difficult. you cant just wander up there and spank it. You have to judge pace and break and angles. Fred’s first putt was 6 feet, just a gentle tap Son, run it up there. It is no exaggeration to say Fred hit this putt 40 yards. It didn’t get much better over the next 40 minutes.

Time to tee off and Laura made her way up to the tee in her golf cart. I could see she wasn’t too happy with this particular life choice as her face was beetroot red and sweaty. Some comment about why these carts don’t have air con and that we were “gonna need more drink” followed, but I blocked them out. Top tier sportsmen can’t allow outside distractions.

The first hole went surprisingly well for me. Good drive, nice chip, two putts and a par. Fred teed off about 100 yards from the green. I gave him a par based on the fact it was a par 12, I just didn’t want to steal any enthusiasm from the already not exactly positive group.

Second hole, just as I start to swing the club back Harriet shouts something. Fortunately it didn’t effect my shot, but me then asking them to be quiet when I was swinging was a big mistake. The game for the others from that point on was to try and put me off as much as possible, whilst giving Fred nothing but encouragement despite his club throwing temper.

This continues for another few holes, surprisingly though I am putting together a very nice round. All pars, a couple of bogey’s and I am really getting a good score going. I am a pretty average golfer, I used to be OK when I was younger, but I just got taller and fatter and not any better, then over the years the fatness and tallness became a bit of a hindrance. At the moment I am about a 19 handicap, good enough to not embarrass myself but not good enough to beat anyone. Over 9 holes I shoot between 44 and 48 shots. I haven’t shot less than 40 for more than 20 years, it is a goal I have to do it again. I watch YouTube videos for hours about course management and chipping because I really want to do it. Don’t forget this it’s important.

By the 5th hole things are really going well. The constant shouting on my backswing has stopped, I am scoring well, even Fred is getting it together, perhaps this wasn’t the absolute abomination of an idea it appeared. As I chipped and putted my way to a 4 on the 5th I noticed Fred was a bit down, he had completely turned from being happy to sad in an instant. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong so I sent him to his mum and I took Harriet to the next hole. Got up on the tee, smashed my drive and they still weren’t there.

Eventually they turned up and explained Fred had left one of his clubs 3 holes back and could I go back and get it. I’ve done this before, it’s no big deal, but Fred was devastated and it signaled the end of his round. He didn’t want to play anymore and I had a half mile drive back to pick up a Top Flite kids sand wedge.

Fast Forward to the 8th hole. I have hit 31 shots so far, I need two pars to break the mythical 40. I know I can do it because I played the same course two days previous and shot a birdie on the 9th. Just have to relax hit a good tee shot and I can do it.

It’s a par 3, 175 yards. Just a gentle 5 iron. I’ve got this. Silence everywhere, even the birds stopped tweeting, not a breath of wind. I line it up, swing the club smoothly back, get to the top of my backswing and Laura at the top of her lungs shouts “BOTTOM OF THE 9TH!”

I’m in front of my kids, I can’t say or do what I actually want to at this point. I watch my ball sail into a bunker at the side of the green and smash my club into the ground in frustration. Don’t worry though Dave, you can still do this. one more good shot out of the bunker salvage a 4 and then just do the same as you did Friday, you can do this.

My positive mental attitude restored I did just that. Made a 4 and walked back to the cart knowing all I have to do is repeat what I did just two days earlier. Just one more good hole and I’ve done it.

As I got back in the cart Laura asked me what the time was. I told her it was 6.40pm. Apparently she had put dinner in the oven and we had to get back ASAP to get it out before it was burned and we had to leave immediately. I didn’t get to play the 9th hole. So another life goal down the drain this week.

It was a pretty quiet journey home, except for Laura moaning about her burnt legs and telling me that whilst she had a good time maybe next time I just take Fred.

Don’t worry Laura, next time I’m taking none of you.

It’s been a tough week in the Shroder house this week, well I say the house, mainly just me. I caught strep in the middle of the biggest surge of COVID cases the world has ever seen. As I sit here and write this I just read that Florida had nearly 10,000 cases today. That’s quite a lot and while we don’t have elderly relatives here and are in the main fairly healthy it’s still just starting to get a little worrying.

But anyway, Strep is like Allergies, something that doesn’t exist in England. Never ever have I heard of anyone in England having Strep throat in 35 years. I think it is tonsillitis, but I can’t be 100% sure. Well it hit me hard, fever, couldn’t swallow, could barely move but I’m a fighter, I don’t let it get the better of me. 2 days in bed and I am right as rain. I’m a bit like the Lance Armstrong of Strep, not that I am a life ruining drug cheat, just that I am a survivor.

Laura was a fantastic nurse, a role she is not naturally suited to but performed incredibly nonetheless. She brought me regular drinks, both hot and cold, forced medicine down my throat and took control of my recovery. This has meant though that she is now in full nurse mode and can’t get out of it. I have (very well controlled) diabetes, not Type 1 diabetes, the type you can feel sorry for, I have fat mans diabetes. I got diagnosed with it at 30 which I think must be some sort of record, but at 30 I weighed in at a trim and ready 308 lbs, just a tiny bit overweight for a 6 foot 3 man.

I’m not 308 lbs anymore and I am in whats called remission, so I don’t take any medication, I just don’t drink full fat coke, which is punishment enough. I do though need to have regular blood tests and I am due one. Since the switch to “Nurse Laura” this blood test has become the most important thing in our lives. I’ve been putting it off to be honest, been busy and dying of a throat infection, that and I didn’t fancy wading through a sea of Covidiots to get this done. That answer was not enough though and Laura has taken to sending me pictures of infected diabetic feet at regular intervals followed by the words “I’m not pushing you around in a wheelchair” so I caved in and got the paperwork on my way home from golf today, if I get Covid from going to get this blood test I am not to blame.

One positive thing though is that the blood test takes place at the same place I have to go to give a sample to prove that my vasectomy worked, so as she is forcing me to go I expect, no demand, some help with that

Anyway, the time spent in bed suffering meant I had chance to think and bizarrely I couldn’t stop thinking about another time I was in pain, about a year or so ago.

I used to smoke and I obviously could not smoke in the house, I mean I’m not an animal, so I went out into our very small back yard at the time. I didn’t really even like smoking that much, I only took up to get an extra five minutes an hour off work and an extra five minutes an hour out of the bear pit that is our house when the kids aren’t listening and then I went through my usual routine. Flicked through Facebook, made my way through my 15th heater of the day and wandered back inside.

I got back in the house and needed the bathroom, which was on the way to the living room so I went inside. My zip was undone, which is not unusual to be honest and is vastly more common than being done up properly. I went to get myself arranged correctly to finish the procedure.

What was odd though was there was this searing pain, like I’d got myself caught in the open zipper, and the pain just got worse and worse. That and my bollocks were buzzing like a housewives toy drawer.

I yanked my shorts and boxers down, screaming in agony. I actually thought I had been bitten by a spider and called for my own personal Florence Nightingale. By the time Laura made her way to me I had pulled something out of right testicle but it was still throbbing. There I was standing there stark bollock naked from the waist down tears in my eye with Laura just laughing at me. It was the most intense pain I’d ever felt.

Laura figured it out eventually, a bee had somehow got in to my open fly while I was out smoking and then just as I was about to shake hands with the unemployed stung me literally in the right plum. Whilst with hindsight I applaud her for working it out so quickly under such stressful circumstances, She could have been a bit quicker in realizing that the sting was still firing venom into me with horrendous rhythm, each pulse making me clinch and want to vomit with equal ferocity.

We ran upstairs as Laura’s new occupation of professional testicologist was not over and nor was my suffering. Pain is one thing, I can cope with pain, shame and embarrassment not so much. Laura spent the next 10 minutes, tweezers in hand as slowly and delicately as possible plucking a bee sting out of the most tender area imaginable

After about 45 minutes the pain died down, the swelling didn’t though and I really wish the bee had died for something worthwhile and got the frank rather than the beans.

Ultimately, where I am meandering to with this is I know pain. In the last year I’ve had both strep and a bee sting to the nuts. So I don’t want to be hearing from Laura about childbirth and how much it hurt. Try running naked through the house in tears while the kids watch their mother attack you with tweezers. That’s real pain, for everyone involved. If I had any respect in this house I lost it that day.

We are trying to grow the blog again, so any comments, likes, shares are greatly appreciated, you can follow us on twitter @Tshroders for real time updates usually on things that wouldn’t warrant a full post. For example my last tweets involved me hiding in the bathroom because Laura wanted advice on birthday presents for her friend.

Florida people, stay safe, British people, get your arses back to work, you’ve had 3 months off now, lazy bastards.

I am posting this from a hotel at Universal Studios, where I’ve had an awesome Fathers Day weekend. I am very lucky to be able to celebrate here and it was so much fun. I have taken a load of video footage and it will make our first You Tube video.

Apologies upfront to any people who read this who are American, this blog is largely about a person who is famous in the UK, but to the best of my knowledge has not yet “cracked” the US. So if you don’t know who this person is I have added a picture below for you to take a look of

There is a stand up comedian in the UK called Jason Manford. It is very unlikely that he would ever read this post, so I feel happy to describe him in some detail. Jason Manford is pretty funny, his stand up is good and he is rightly very popular. At a guess I would say he is mid to late 30’s, has a beard, maybe a few pounds over the “ideal” weight of a man his height. In a world of Rocks, Vin Diesels, Brad Pitts and Leonardo Di Caprios, Jason Manford is Laura’s housewives crush. This in itself is quite strange and shows the difference between men and women. I don’t know of a man who has ever been madly infatuated with a female celebrity who is funny, but average looking.

Were he not famous in the UK, he could walk down any street and not turn any heads. I don’t think even he would say he was anything other than averagely attractive. Just a normal man who tells funny stories, mainly about his family.. Writing it out like that makes me think he just got there before me..

All of that being said, Laura is absolutely infatuated by this man. Stalker level infatuation. Not a day goes past when I don’t get told what Jason Manford is doing or has done. Recently apparently, he took a job as delivery driver for a grocery store in the UK. This information is of absolutely zero interest or use to me whatsoever, yet we managed a 25 minute conversation on what a good man he was for doing a days work. The irony is not lost on me that Laura prevented me doing a days work by telling me the story.

The Masked Singer was on in the UK recently, not the (vastly superior) US version, but a version with UK celebrities. On one of the first episodes a hedgehog came out and sang Black Magic by Little Mix. Before the hedgehog opened his mouth Laura exclaimed that it was Jason Manford under the suit, because she could “smell” him. Yes, smell him, through the TV.

She qualified that a bit more by saying she knew how he walked, I’m guessing one foot in front of the other like everyone else, but apparently unbeknown to me Laura has studied the way this man walks, in an 85lb Hedgehog costume as well. We had to watch that show from start to finish every week as the hedgehog kept getting through, knocking out actual Grammy winning singers until the final when he lost to ginger one from Girls Aloud and Laura could gloat that she “called it from the start” and “when you know you know”

Little sidebar here, I have to run anything I write about Laura past her before I publish it, I read what I had so far and she stopped me several times. Firstly to tell me that he was actually 39 and secondly because Harriet was crying because she had eaten all the M&M ice creams and she couldn’t have another one. It is 9.45am. She also mentioned that she quite fancied James Corden as well, this worried me, at least Manford is funny.

I am 100% certain that if Laura had a bucket list, meeting or seeing Jason Manford would be on it, it would be the pinnacle of her life, besting our wedding day, the birth of either of our children, or any other future event. She would die happy if she ever managed to actually meet him. I on the other hand could take or leave it, it would have no effect on my life in any way.

I know seeing this celebrity would have no impact on my life with 100% certainty because it has already happened.

The last time I was back in the UK was Christmas 2018, the company I worked for are headquartered in the North West of England and every year they hold their annual awards. In 2018 it was in an old manor house in England. The sort of place that they could film Downtown Abbey at, beautiful to look at but in December so cold we could have stored all the M&M ice creams Harriet has destroyed this week without any appliances.

These particular awards were very special as they were the companies 40th anniversary. The organization’s great and good from all over the globe were there, including one of the guys who started it in his garage or something. It never ceases to amaze me the number of businesses started in peoples garages. I’ve got 4 bikes, 2 trash cans, a set of golf clubs and some boxes in mine, I couldn’t start a small fire let alone Microsoft.

We were all sitting there awkwardly separated from anyone we knew or worked with, fortunately I landed a table with 80% British lads and it was a free bar, so we just smashed through shots while the boring speeches about what a rags to riches story the company was went on and on. Then at some point during the seventeenth retelling of how we “lead the way in Oil and Gas staffing” and my 7th Jaegerbomb some music played and lights flashed.

Out strolls this roughly 6 foot tall, bearded, heavy set man, dressed in a suit that makes it quite clear he isn’t as woefully underpaid as the rest of us in the room. I was pretty close to the stage, (everyone was to be honest, there were no more than 200 people there) and it became clear to me quickly through the haze of two day drinking, 3 hours sleep and my £59 Marks & Spencer Tuxedo that the man on stage was quite a bit funnier than our CEO. Something else clicked when the first 15 minutes of him speaking was just making jokes at the expense of the company.

I had missed the announcement of who was coming onstage because I was busy convincing the rest of the table that if we didn’t empty the free bar we had failed, but it was housewives favorite Jason Manford on stage. A man who has sold out Wembley Arena, A man who has multiple best selling DVD’s (do they still sell DVD’s?) is on stage no more than 20 feet from me.

I’m a thoughtful man, I thought that if I could text Laura and tell her she would be excited. I know she loves this guy, I know she would want to know that he was here, in fact I am surprised she didn’t know before me. She clearly has some sort of covert access to his diary, she knows what he does every bloody day. So I sent a text telling her and immediately she replied that she didn’t believe me. I followed it up with pictures and a video.

Instead of the delight and wonder I was expecting, I just got a barrage of abuse back. Apparently it wasn’t fair, I didn’t even like him that much, it was all my fault because I had made her give up her job and if she still worked she might have had Jason Manford present her awards. this despite the fact her previous company had about 15 employees.

The set finished, 3/4 of the room weren’t from the UK so whilst it went pretty well a lot of people didn’t quite get all of the jokes and I started to think how I hadn’t had a pay rise in 4 years, but we can pay for millionaire comedian Jason Manford to hand out some bits of glass to people for an hour. So whilst Laura thinks this guy is the greatest thing ever I have a couple of beefs with him.

Firstly, I can’t get a two seater car now because we have two kids, I am sure both were conceived after Laura watched his DVD.

Secondly, I can’t go a day without hearing about what he has done. Apparently he does a daily quiz now and we should do it.

Thirdly, my wife hates me because I accidentally saw him live

And finally I worked four years without a pay rise and all that money went on him

Still at least he isn’t James Corden. That guy really is a prick

As I write this I am just starting my lunch break. It’s been a morning.

Laura has started walking with her friend during lock down. She wakes up at about 5.30am, turns on every light in the house, has a 20 minute chat with Alexa and then slams all the doors on her way out. It is a very relaxing and pleasant way to start my day, which should by rights start two hours later with a relaxing cup of tea and a shower.

One of the side effects of this admirable fitness challenge is that by 8.30pm she is sound asleep on the sofa, head nodding along as I sit through the 9th episode of Schitts Creek that night as it is the only thing we can agree on to watch.

The morning walk usually is between 4 and 6 miles and takes about 90 minutes. 90 minutes just Laura and her friend, talking about life and all it’s quirks. I don’t think I have spoken to one person for 90 uninterrupted minutes in my life, let alone 6 times a week. I often wonder what they have to talk about for that long and assume it is about what a great husband I am as that is the only topic that could sustain 9 hours of conversation a week. Most people would have nothing else to say to each other after that, not these two. Laura gets in puts together 4 completely different breakfasts and then calls this friend for another 2 hours. Also their conversations aren’t really conversations. They kind of talk over each other, each getting louder and louder as the minutes pass.

Today though they took a break from this new venture and there was no walk. I thought this would mean we would get a slower paced start to the day, some peace in the house as I started my work day. I was clearly wrong.

It started OK actually, Laura is up at 7am which is a lay in for her now, making just enough noise to wake up Harriet who took it as a sign she could run in my bedroom and elbow drop me in the nuts. I got all set up for work, ready to go and Laura started breakfast, a picture of domestic bliss.

8.55am hits and the morning took a turn for the worse. As the clock on the microwave hit 8.55am Laura’s phone went off, I know this not because she has an annoying message tone, but because I looked up to see her pick up her phone and then at the top of her lungs shout ‘SSSHHHHHIIIIITTTTTT!!!!!!”

Summer Camps are hard to come by at the moment, something to do with CHII-NAA and WOOO-HAAAN, so we have improvised a bit and made some other plans. Freddie’s teacher has a son of a similar age and he was getting some one on one Football (Soccer) coaching today. They kindly invited Fred along and this was arranged weeks ago. I know it was arranged weeks ago because we had to pay cash and cash is not a concept in this house. The money had been sitting in Laura’s saving pot for at least a month. Well today was the day of the coaching and despite having a charming Cavalier King Charles themed calendar, multiple iPhones, no less than 6 Alexa’s and an iWatch all of which able to record the date and time we are doing things, nobody had made any note that today was the day. Oh and it started at 9am.

With only one adult dressed in anything it fell on me to get Fred out of his pit, dressed, in his football gear, sunscreen on water bottle ready and over to the park in 5 minutes. This happened whilst Laura did what I like to call ‘faffing’. Faffing is panicking, shouting, generally achieving nothing at all, but ensuring everyone else is laser focused. As I chuck on Fred’s kit, get his boots on and cover him in sunscreen Laura throws the cash at me like I’m working the champagne room at Rachel’s, Orlando’s premium Gentlemen’s club and almost certainly Harriet’s future workplace.

Fortunately it is only a couple of minutes walk from our house to the park and I managed to get Fred there just 5 minutes late and I get back in to my house at 9.10am pleased that the fire has been put out and I can crack on. Still in her pajamas, Laura’s next 5 minutes were spent explaining to me how it was my fault and that she couldn’t be responsible for everything.

We agreed that it was my fault and off she went for a shower, somehow this was managed while being on the phone to her friend who she would have been walking with. Now I know iPhones are water resistant now, but surely I can’t be the only one who thinks being on the phone in the shower is odd. I don’t really get the logistics of it but each to their own, if she’s chatting on the phone I am not at fault for anything. As long as she could pick Fred up at 10 I was good, I had a lot to do.

Fortunately for me she did manage to do that and brought Fred home from training Now Fred has done no physical activity for weeks, he uses his hoverboard to go from his bedroom to the fridge, that is the grueling level of cardiovascular work out that he has been putting himself through. Well at 10.10am this morning the poor kid fell through the door like one of those people you see getting carried over the line in a marathon. He fell on to the sofa, right in my eye line, face as red as his hair, full of lactic acid and regrets. Some discussion followed about him going in the shower and he actually agreed and started to literally strip off there and then. The next 15 minutes of my life involved a sweaty 9 year old sitting stark bollock naked on my sofa trying to “get the energy together” for a shower.

Still he did it and I will likely not see him again today as he retreats back to starting his Fortnite clan, a venture which currently stands at 2 members with others slated to try out in August. I hope the entry requirements are low.

Next up Harriet, her turn to go in the shower, or bath, or shower, or bath, the argument between the women of the house on that could only be rivaled by the Brexit negotiations. Each back and forward becoming more and more urgent as Laura needed to get to the grocery store. Tears followed, some shouting, a couple of “it’s not fair”s (and that was just Laura) and by 11.15am some semblance of normality was back. Laura was on the phone, Harriet was knee deep in her latest Nickelodeon show and Fred was shut away in his virtual world, spending real money on clothes for a computer character.

Time for some peace? Not by a long shot

Before going to the shop Laura checked her bank account, there was some sort of administrative cock up that cost her $19. That $19 might as well have been $19m. Heads were going to roll, people needed firing, that bank was “No use to her anymore”. We settled on a strongly worded email followed by confirmation that this $19 wouldn’t immediately impact her during her fight with ‘The Man’ to get it back. This however as it often does snowballed into a forensic examination on whether or not her credit card had been paid, if so what account from and then somehow into purchasing new swimming goggles for Harriet. I kind of zoned out during this, the faffing was at peak level, no real input from me was going to help other than confirming everything had been paid and finding $89 left over from our weekend gambling trip which I just gave to her. After 11 years of marriage I have learnt that many of the crises which cause Laura’s mad panic can be resolved by me just handing over cash. The $89 was quite literally every penny I had in the house.

Finally, finally, it was time for Laura to go and get the shopping, finally I would get some peace. As the door closed behind her I let out a sigh of relief, I could feel my blood pressure returning to its normal, only slightly higher than the average man’s level. I even reclined my seat a little to get into peak email writing position. By the time I got there Laura was back, literally 15 seconds after shutting the door.

Picture the scene, she runs over to me, screeching, “Check my neck! I’ve been stung by something”. I took a cursory look, mainly because since my eye surgery I cannot see anything up close, it’s pointless. There was a freckle, which I am assuming has been there longer than 15 seconds and that is about it. So I went with my fall back in times like this, told her to put some Sudocreme on it. That answer has saved me more times than I care to remember. Really I just wanted to be left the hell alone.

It’s at this point I saw my second semi naked body of the day as Laura ripped off her T-Shirt and found an ant. She called it a “Big bastard ant” but I think it was a pretty standard sized ant. The process of elimination led very quickly to the ant being the culprit.

What followed was a scene I have only witnessed watching uprisings in Iraq on TV. Laura stood their boobs swinging in the breeze, flip flop in hand, shouting things I couldn’t understand, while she brutalized this ant to death with her shoe. The picture of her half naked, angrily waving a rubber flip flop is one that will live with me forever.

Eventually after the aggressive retribution of justice on this ant Laura left, giving me some quiet. Normally a trip to the grocery store takes 2 hours. I started writing this blog when she left. She was back by the time I finished it. I have wasted that 45 minutes of peace on lunch and writing this. Right now, I am so jealous of that ant.