Curse of the Dummy

I think my estrogen levels are going through the roof. Two years of being a daddy who takes on the traditional role of the mummy, or Dummy as one friend helpfully suggested that I now designate myself, has led to some alarming developments.

Just this afternoon I took delivery of a machine that will make my life so much better. No, not a sports car, rather the Miele Rotary Iron. When the delivery man turned up I ran outside in my pinny ( I was baking) and squealed with delight, making small jumping movements and clapping my hands rapidly together. The look of pity the delivery guys gave me will haunt me until the day I die.

I tried to man up and lift the machine down the stairs alone. My goodness it was heavy, so in the end I gave in and let the big strong men take it for me. As soon as the job was done they were out of the house like a shot, seemed like they were uncomfortable spending time alone with me in a confined space. It was only when I glanced in the mirror a little while later that I saw my face was lightly dusted in glitter makeup, a legacy of cleaning out the daughter's room this morning.

Oh the shame, how has it come to this. Must dash, think my macaroons are burning.