Sleeping on the job is a sackable offence, understandably if you’re at the wheel of a bus with 30 screaming passengers.
grandkids is unpaid, obviously, yet there are tired evenings a P45 would be deserved.
Take last Friday after a hard week at the word face left yours truly absolutely knackered, a zombie unable to think straight never mind walk undeviating to my daughter’s place to look after Little L and Canny C.
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She’s pregnant with my third grandchild and off the booze which signalled no late shift even if her hubby fancied drinking for two.
On the way I bought a and Twirl four-pack from Tesco to have during an action film with enough crash bang wallops to keep the eyes from shutting while the ears listened for calls or cries from young ‘uns upstairs.
The kids were more awake than me when I stumbled, stone cold sober should you be wondering, through the front door. Canny C gave a beady stare and stayed on the bedroom landing, Little L hurtling down to be chucked in the air a few times before showing off his latest train set.
It’s a model of the London Overground service he catches to see Granda with the capital’s Hoxton hipsters, a £15 purchase extracted from soft touch moi after a doe-eyed video phone call from the transport museum shop. Works every time for him.
Mam and Dad put them to bed and then went to a restaurant, leaving Granda in charge. Both woke, Canny C twice, when Uncle Freddie recently babysat, but my son is an ace sootherer and lullabied them back into the world of nod.
I settled down for the watch. Pizza cooked, tick, Twirls opened, tick. movie on Netflix. Tick. Then an overwhelming, irresistible heaviness descended and my heavy eyes wouldn’t stay open. Even the irritating hiss of a tyrannical baby monitor ceased to be a princess and the pea.
Three missing hours later a turning key in the front door jolted me awake on the settee. The kids could’ve come down and played with toys or raided the fridge and I wouldn’t have known.
It wasn’t kipping at the wheel of a bus, yet the guilt still lingers. Falling asleep on the job while guarding two precious lives is far from my proudest moment.
Next time – and two are booked in already – it’s an afternoon power nap before the evening ahead. Do matchsticks in the eyes actually work? Desperate measures and all that.
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