Let's Be Spontaneous!

Weekends used to be relaxed affairs; a period of two days when we slowed down, chilled out, mooched around and generally enjoyed ourselves. Not so now that the God of Sport rules our every spare moment. The alarm heartlessly streams Radio 4 into our bedroom at the same time at the weekend as it does during the week, the only difference being that Husband and I will have already drawn lots the night before as to who will respond, leap out of bed and start yelling: "Bags! Teeth! Hair! Shoes!" (We have made life difficult for ourselves, I admit. We still labour under the misguided belief that Friday nights signal the beginning of two days of fun, which invariably results in us drinking just that bit too much wine and watching just that bit too much rubbish telly before keeling into bed just that bit too late to be getting up at the crack of dawn the next day. We are just too wild for our own good.)

This Saturday it is my turn. I stumble and lurch blindly to the bathroom, promising myself yet again that next time I will not have that beer before that half bottle of wine on a Friday night, and manage to locate items which could be described as "clothes". However on closer examination, it would be stretching the imagination to beyond breaking point to describe their combined effect as anything resembling "an outfit".
No matter, I think to myself. I have only to drop and run this morning. I could, in fact, drive to school in my pyjamas, open the door, push Daughter out and drive away, tyres leaving satisfying burn marks on the tarmac.
Then I think of the scornful looks I would get from Daughter and reason that pyjamas probably aren't the solution I'm looking for. I resolve to pull on a coat to cover up the worst of my ensemble and decide to risk going make-up-less, having convinced myself that no one will be seeing me up close.

The children have already been up for at least an hour to ensure they get their required weekend dose of unsuitable television. I meditate briefly on the benefits of allowing them this on a weekday as it might mean Daughter would get out of bed of her own accord if she were allowed an hour of "Glee" and dodgy music videos before school, instead of being on the receiving end of my own personal brand of extraordinary rendition for teenagers, i.e. standing by her door shouting "GET UP!" and flicking her light switch on and off until sleep is no longer an option.

On arrival at school, I am horrified to see that two of the Dads are there, leaning against their cars and chatting. Why can't they do the drop and run thing like us Mums? I think, panicking, as I attempt to drive into school without being seen. I absolutely, positively cannot let them see me looking so rough. It would be Social Death, as Daughter would say if anything like that were to happen to her. However, at this moment Daughter, it turns out, is more concerned with Actual Death due to reckless driving.
"Mum! Look where you're going!" she cries, as I try driving with my head bent low behind the steering wheel, my hair flicked Bieber-style over my face. "You're going to crash into Evie and Millie and Molly and Livvy and Lottie if you're not careful. Oh, look! The Dads are waving at you, Mum. Aren't you going to say hello?"
I wince and wave back, knowing I will now have to get out of the car in my ill-chosen Saturday-morning garb so as not to be seen as rude and unfriendly. I think back to an article in the Guardian Weekend magazine about School Run Chic. My look this morning is less Claudia Schiffer, more The Lady in the Van. I regret not staying in my pyjamas. At least then I could have popped my head out of the window, gestured to my pyjamas and made some idiotic joke about going to a pyjama party without having to emerge from the car.
"Run!" I urge Daughter. "If you're lucky no one will realise we're related."
She shoots me a rueful smile. "Sometimes you are OK, Mum," she says gratefully, before breaking into a sprint, while I go over for a chat.

I arrive home to find that Small Boy has got himself a play date. As Daughter has arranged to go into town after her match, this means that Husband and I find ourselves in the unusual position of an entire day to ourselves with no children.
"We could go out!" I enthuse. "We could go to the cinema or something!"
"Oh, no," Husband says, shaking his head. "We haven't booked tickets."
"We don't need to - we can be spontaneous!" I cry. I realise I am probably looking rather wild-eyed and desperate at this point, but what the hell, I am FEELING wild-eyed and desperate. We have not been spontaneous since 1998. A fact which possibly explains Husband's reaction.
He shoots me a look of utter panic. "Spontaneous?" he echoes. "What's that?"
I sigh and retreat to the sofa with a cat and the newspaper. Husband looks visibly relieved that I have given up so easily and returns to his greenhouse.
At least I can catch up on a bit of sleep while I wait for the children to come home, I think, settling down with Jet curled into me, purring contentedly. (She and I do not often get such quality time together, it has to be said.)
I am just dozing off, my mind filled with soft-focused images of turning up to school looking like Claudia Schiffer, when something wet is shoved into my face.
"Urgh!" I jolt awake, sending the cat shooting from my lap, but not before she's given me a vicious farewell scratch. "What the--?"
It is the dog, her head on one side, a half-chewed tennis ball in her mouth. From the look of utter woe on her face she is plainly saying, "You're not going to sleep, are you? But we've got the whole day to ourselves! I thought we could be spontaneous . . ."