Peter Curran, husband and father of 2 young children has taken to devising ways of getting and bit of peace and quiet back in his life ...
The motorcar is of course a vile pollutant, but to parents whose auditory senses have been booted around like an old football, the car is a sarcophagus of silence. Once the door clunks, you can hear the rustle of your clothes, and the quiet sigh as you’re released into solitary confinement. The ticking car clock was invented for moments like this. Sunday morning, I’m only too glad to go out and get the papers - or jump behind the wheel and race to a distant shop for a four-way extension lead,
Stealing time- it’s a dirty business, for sure- but to justify actually having a bath during normal family opening hours one has to be filthy, smelly or visibly stressed enough to enjoy therapeutic intimacy with enamel. It’s well worth the effort though. Low level car maintenance is good for acquiring a few smudges of engine oil, stopping short of course from applying so much that an appearance at the kitchen door-way, spanner in hand – will unleash the erotic possibilities that apparently surge through every woman who catches sight of a sweat soaked greasemonkey. Whatever the occasion- once you’re undressed, climb in, insert plug, then turn on the taps. No point in wasting those ten minutes of bath-filling time.
The most audacious escape from the whirl of family life can be pulled off right under their noses. This time of the year is ideal for acquiring a vast stack of holiday brochures, or if destination is decided - a selection of guide books that require intense and lengthy poring over....
And, ah, the loft…..remote, shadowy, and in need of investigation in times of tumult and rancour down below. You go up there to store something and within minutes you’re in an old tat-relay race as you pick up one discarded object after another, some of them so rich in memory that you can’t move on until the emotions are re-run to the finish.
The last time I was up there,I stood up, stepped backwards and fell through the loft hatch. On the way down I caught the top edge of the radiator between my buttocks before slamming onto the landing. Eight hours later, alone and horizontal in the accident and emergency department, I reassured the consultant, that ‘no I didn’t spend most of my time creeping about in a loft.
I was desperate to be released and ooh-aah my way across the hospital car park like some wincing Frankenstein’s monster.- clumping toward the strains of cartoon music, wailing children and cutlery being slammed onto the kitchen table. The discordant but heavenly soundtrack of home.
