Right next to my front door, by the little table with the key basket on it, there’s a worn patch in the carpet.

I was looking at it the other day as I waited for
Mrs P and the Boomerang Child to finish getting ready for an outing.

Now I have to admit the carpet in our humble abode is getting on a bit so the odd tired patch or worn thread should not really come as any surprise.

To put it into some context, the carpet was one of the things we said we’d replace when we first moved into the house five years ago. As I’m sure is fairly typical, we got busy sorting other things first so it hasn’t happened yet. Sound familiar?

Anyway.

There I was the other day. Waiting. All set to go. Keys in hand. Shoes on feet. Pacing up and down . . . further wearing out the already worn carpet.

It occurred to me, the carpet being the age it is, other male occupants of the house have probably walked the same trail while waiting for their wives/partners over the years.

I wondered if their wives/partners were similarly challenged when it came to getting ready on time? Had they also had to tell a little white lie about the start time for the function in the hope of getting to their seats on time?

Or was it just me?

If I explain how I’d arrived at this point maybe you can be the judge.

Here are the key points: Mrs P, myself and the eight months pregnant Boomerang Child have tickets to attend a performance. Builder Boy (The Boomerang Child’s partner) and their 22-month-old are staying behind at the house along with the two dogs while we go. I’ve told them our thing starts at 1pm when the reality is it’s actually 1.15pm.

So.

At 10.30am, after what seems like hours of sorting breakfast and the general enjoyable upending of the house that comes with having a toddler get into anything and everything, the girls decide we should load up the wagons and take the dogs for a walk in the nearby forest.

I’m against the idea.

For starters rain is forecast and well, we just won’t have enough time to get ready after will we?

Mrs P and The Boomerang Child shoot me a simultaneous look – like mother like daughter – which suggests I have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. “Of course we’ll have time. Idiot.”

The next 30 minutes is spent tidying up, getting ready, changing nappies, loading the car, making sure the dogs have all they need, making sure there are snacks available in case a pregnant woman or a 22-month-old have a sudden urge to devour a banana or Vegemite sandwich – or a combination of both.

I make sure I’ve got my wallet in case they need an ice cream and jar of peanut butter – or a combination of both. Pregnant women and toddlers run very close in terms of food consumption from what I’ve seen.

Eventually we get to the forest, unpack our crazy caravan and stroll away. It’s now 11.15am.

I can feel the tension starting to build in me as we walk. It’s taking ages. We’re going to be late.

What’s making it worse (for me) is that Mrs P, The Boomerang Child and Baby Poppy seem to be in a world where time doesn’t exist. There are stops to look at trees. Then we count the number of pine cones on a branch. Then we sing a song about birds. The dogs roll in a big pool of mud.

Then it rains and we sing a song about it. My three girls are blissfully happy in their own little world.

Eventually we get home. Muddied and wet we get to the front door where Builder Boy, who had been unavailable for the walk, greets us in a concerned tone: “I wondered if something had happened. It’s 12.30pm. You’re going to be late?”

It’s at this stage a realisation comes over the two adult women who will be accompanying me to the function.

No words are spoken but the sudden rush of activity speaks volumes. Basically it is saying: “We are going to be late. Why didn’t you tell us? Idiot.”

I gave up trying to understand this phenomenon years ago. And as chaos reigned all around me – I mean, literally women and children running round screaming and crying in a panic, that sort of thing – I calmly showered and changed, put on my shoes and jacket and stood by the front door with my keys in my hand.

Then I paced up and down.

At precisely 12.50pm, Mrs P and The Boomerang Child emerged from within the bowels of the house all glammed up. Blood pressures steadily falling, normal service resuming, we drove away.

“We might just make it on time,” I said as I pointed to the time on the car’s digital display. It read 12.55pm.

But Mrs P wasn’t having any of it. “I know you always add 15 minutes on so I wasn’t worried,” she said.

The game was up. She’d worked out my little bit of deception and caught me out.

I didn’t know quite how to respond. So after a little bit of silence I decided to change the subject. One thing sprang immediately to mind.

“Think we might need to get on and replace the carpet. It’s starting to get quite bare near the front door by the little table with the key basket on it.”