Late

I was late for work this morning. Four weeks into the job and I'm sloping in with my trousers over my arm. The trousers, the only work trousers I brought from the UK, had been left overnight at the drive-in dry-cleaners on Bourke Street. Yes, you heard that right - drive-in dry-cleaners. They have drive in bottle shops (off licences) as well, which suggests a nation too pissed on hastily-acquired grog to do it's own laundry.

The reason they'd been left, quite literally stranded at the drive-in, was that it's only a drive-in if you're travelling towards the city. So you can drop your stuff off in the morning but it's almost impossible to pick it up again that night if you're coming back in the opposite direction, which seems to defeat the object of a drive-through anything. I picked them up this morning instead and got changed in my office, which rather startled our accountant as he went sauntering past. Perhaps he'll take pity at my plight and increase my benefits cheque.

The reason I was late was because I'd had another one of those mornings that make me wonder whether motherhood really is compatible with having any sort of a career, even a part-time one. Darren did that man thing, that single-childless person thing of getting yourself out of bed, showering, dressing and leaving the house. And in his case, sauntering up the road on foot to get to work. He says he starts at 7am but I wonder whether he's secretly holed-up in the hospital canteen to get away from the chaos (back home he leaves at 6.45am to avoid the traffic then enjoys a leisurely breakfast at work over the morning papers and I'm equally suspicious about that).

Meanwhile, Ella had Weet-bix for breakfast (not Weetabix, Weet-bix, loved by the aussies and universally whinged about by the poms). She wore most of it but what bits she didn't wear she spot-welded to the dining table and the laminate floor which meant I had to get a green scrubber and some washing up liquid and get on my hands and knees. Then I had to make the beds and do the washing up and throw more Napisan stain remover into the bucket of soaking nursery clothes before I could think about getting a shower and dressing Ella and brushing both our teeth.

After that, just as we were ready, she dirtied her nappy and hid in the tent in her bedroom refusing to come out so I had to drag her out kicking and screaming and remove her shoes and her dungarees and then pin her to the changing mat to get cleaned up. Then she refused to walk down the stairs to the car park so I had to carry her and my briefcase and her nursery bag and struggle with all the keys for the doors. And after that we hit the rush hour traffic and got caught up with the serious commuters (the ones who won't even let you out of the junction at the top of the road).

When we finally got to nursery (after rescuing the trousers from the the drive-in), I had to go looking for her Josie Jump doll, which she'd left behind last night. To top it all, she fell asleep in the car and started running a bit of a temperature and when I asked the nursery teacher to keep an extra eye on her, ring me if there was a problem, they said she couldn't stay if she might be running a temperature. Then they changed their minds and said she could stay afterall, it was just a bit of a cold, she'd be okay.

And we did it all again in reverse this evening, only this time it was pasta and not weet-bix. It's compatible with having a career, I suppose, but not one you're bothered about.