The Etiquette of Anti-Social Behaviour

It's not that I'm a total social recluse. In fact, I'm not a recluse at all. I like socialising. Put a glass of wine in my hand and I'm as happy as, well, Larry.

But sometimes I just like quiet. Like when I've had a long day at work and dragged myself off to the ballet outfitters and handed over perfectly good wine money for ballet slippers that'll last three months. On those days, like today, I'd much rather kick off my shoes, lie with my feet on the back of the couch and eat food that comprises mainly of carbs.

And then I like to get ready for my bath. The bath itself is a ritual. One that can only be done in solitude. I strip. Then I start the water. Then I wonder around my house. In the nick. It's liberating. And Alanis "recommends walking around naked in your living roo-oo-oom", remember? I've lived in a situation where I can do this for a long time, you see. Until a year ago, that is.

Almost a year ago today, my brother and his (strumpet, hussy, charlatan) wife decided to end their marriage. I love my brother. And I really like him. So he moved in with The Daughter and me. And so, I suppose, I became his wife. Which is why I've started referring to him as My Husband in everyday conversations. But before you go all judgemental on my ass, let me explain the true nature of our relationship.

I make his lunch. I make his morning coffee. He has usurped my lounge television remote and so the only thing that can be viewed in the very room designed for TV watching, is sport. I make his dinner. We sometimes have a drink in the evenings or a cup of tea and chat about our days. But that's where is ends. And so, without the wifely benefits of a marriage, he is My Husband. So, I guess, it is like a real marriage.

My Husband is away on business. And so tonight, my home becomes The Pant's nudist colony. A space in which she can bath with the door open. And wax in the lounge. And walk to the kitchen to reheat wax without hiding my naughty bits. I probably should. My young neighbour eyed me through the kitchen window the other day. I wasn't as much embarrassed as I was chuffed that I'd made an Indian man blush so.

So, with The Husband away and the cooking duties reneged to The BF, my people, I was set for a night of total Pant pampering. Selfish, perhaps. But I don't give an eff.

And so, I was perusing the pages of a fashion magazine. The Daughter was playing in the garden with her fairies. Life was good. Or so I thought. And then I heard, "Do you want to come into my house and play SandArt? My mom can help us."

And that's when it happened. A thousand strange children descended on my abode eager to totally eff the tranquility and cleanliness of my house.

They ran such amok that I am now seated, before The Daughter, unable to speak. I'm exhausted. Too exhausted to get naked. That's got to be a first for The Pant.

Children: Must be schooled in etiquette of anti-social behaviour.