Mayonnaise Sandwiches

I’m in the city for a few days on my own. You know, freedom. Do what you want. No kids. Hallelujah! Take a nap, drink a beer. Put your feet up.

The trouble is that you’re on deadline, the editor’s calling and there’s nothing in the fridge except bread and mayonnaise. The cupboards? Dry oatmeal and bran flakes.

You feel like you’re back at university, only the stakes are higher. Money, your salary, the bank balance and the credit cards. The clothes to buy, groceries, haircuts, medicine, school tuition. Inflation.

So get back to work and don’t lounge.

Crap, you think. And you pick up the phone to call the kids and your beautiful wife and the damn dog and pesky cat. It’s mayhem down the line, from back in the pine forest. Fighting words out of your daughter, cries from your boy. My wife is frantic. How can she get out of an invitation. “Oh shit who’s that at the door?” she says.

And you think, heartburn and all it sure beats mayonnaise sandwiches and flipping through TV channels on your own.

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