I wake up in the dimly lit room. I can just see the dawn’s yellow fingers creeping around the edges of the curtains. I feel the pressure on my bladder. I know I can’t wait. I fumble for my phone. It’s 6.05 a.m. I decide to do something dangerous. I decide to go to the toilet.
I creep stealthily across the room, trying to feel for obstacles with my feet. I don’t think there’s anything there.
I manage to get to the bedroom door without incident. I peer out. I can dimly see my daughter’s bedroom door. It’s wide open. Beautiful brown eyes could even now be glaring at me, lungs filling with air to cry out. I’ve no idea though. My glasses are back on the bedside table. I’m almost clinically blind without them. There could be a 6-foot crocodile in a kilt and an Elvis wig stood in her doorway, I wouldn’t notice.
I creep across the nightmare of a landing. Full of creaking boards. So many boards. This house was only built recently, why has it got so many creaking boards?
I don’t hear anything. I reach the toilet door. I breathe a sigh of relief.
I step over the creaky boards in the bathroom – I know the bathroom creaky boards, they are my friends, they don’t move around like the landing creaky boards do.
I approach the blessed porcelain and carefully lift the lid; it’s OK – I oiled it.
I aim for the side of the basin, I’m not normally a loud urinator, but I have discovered that at some point in the night someone comes in and replaces my normal bladder with that of a Blue Whale. And the resulting noise, at 6.a.m, sounds like Niagara Falls.
I finish up and head back to the bedroom. Slowly, gently, stealthily.
Reaching the door I think I’ve made it, I’ve successfully dodged all the traps.
But it doesn’t matter. My daughter has the ears of a bat. I probably sighed a little too loudly. Or maybe a mouse farted outside, three miles away.
‘MAMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!’ My daughter’s cry fills the house. Calling for her mum, disregarding the fact I am her primary care-giver, waken her up at any time night or day, and she’ll drop me like I’m hot. .
But I’m not bitter.
If I was Indiana Jones, it would have been a very brief film indeed. I’d be dead before the big ball even got rolling.