It’s a Monday morning. I’m at work. Only one coffee deep, so to say I’m not yet fully awake or aware is a given. Then, before I can even make another coffee, I'm embroiled in 'Pursegate'.
Since becoming a Dad over a year-and-a-half ago, it’s taken at least three cups of Costa Rican coffee to get to a level one would consider ‘normal’.
But, I’m getting into it. Those creative juices are just about starting to flow. I’m starting to think: “I can absolutely smash this today. Today is going to be a bloody good day, pal” (that’s the little voice in my own head giving me Monday motivation).
But, my wife and son have other plans for me.
*iPhone Message Tone*
“You’ve lost my purse. I cannot find it anywhere. You were carrying the nappy changing bag [where said purse lives most of the time] yesterday afternoon and that’s the last place I saw it. It’s not there now.”
Oh, sweet Baby Jesus. You know shit just got serious when she says “cannot” instead of “can’t”. She, my wife, my bloody beautiful-but-apparently-agitated wife, is on the cusp of being next-level livid.
Those creative juices just started to dry up. The coffee has started to lose its edge all of a sudden. I hope, for my own sake this bloody purse turns up. If it doesn’t, even if it wasn’t my fault, it’ll still be my fault (obviously). Please turn up, you leather nomad. Please turn up.
*...but taking much longer than usual due to being frantic and also fat thumbs*
“I lost your purse? I didn’t lose your purse. It’s your purse. If it’s lost, you lost it.”
Wrong, wrong, wrong. What are you doing, man? Send a follow up before she can reply!
“I’m sure it’ll turn up. Have you looked everywhere? Ring the place we went for lunch yesterday. Call Tesco and see if it’s been handed in there. I’m sure it’ll turn up. We haven’t lost it.”
We?! WE? The royal ‘we’? What have you done? You’ve implicated yourself in something you’re [almost] 100% certain you aren’t to blame for. Nice one.
This fecking purse best turn up. I mean it, life. Don’t you turn on me today. Not today. If you’re going to turn on me, do it on a Tuesday. But not Monday, please.
Half-an-hour passes. No texts, no calls. Nada. No news is good news, right?
Not really. This bloody purse best turn up.
There is a God (I think…)
*iPhone message tone*
“I’ve found it.”
That’s all I got. Nothing else. But I really didn’t care. PRAISE THE LORD! THANK YOU, YOU POTENTIALLY NON-EXISTENTIAL FIGMENT OF OUR IMAGINATION.
The bloody purse turned up.
“He [our beloved 18-month old Joshua - lovely kid, very cute, but a bit of a mischievous sod at the minute] had taken it out of the changing bag and hidden it in his car.”
No, we didn’t buy him a family saloon. That ‘car’ he put it in is a push-along replica Mini, which has a few little compartments which can easily conceal a purse.
Now, I’m not suggesting he sat there on a Sunday afternoon/evening and plotted Pursegate. But I know my little bundle of joy. I’d hazard a guess and say he knew, to some extent, that: a) He shouldn’t really have taken his mother’s purse and/or, b) It didn’t belong in his mini Mini.
But, I digress. The fecking purse turned up. My Monday went from 0-100 and from 100 back to 0 in an hour-or-so. My next cup of coffee didn’t seem strong enough. An Irish Coffee might have.
Shortly afterwards, I laughed - hard. I love kids. I love my kid.
Here’s to many, many more Pursegates. They certainly make life more interesting - if only for a short while.