I don’t enjoy feeling useless. Back in the lounge, the fire heating my back, I churn through the possibilities.
Mitch fusses over Vicky in her carry cot, tucking in blankets with what looks to me like unnecessary force. Our daughter sleeps peacefully through it while Cara whines with the Haswell kid on the settee. Mitch wags a finger at her, Tutting her quiet again. Cara pushes out her bottom lip. Beside her, Adam’s face is reddening. Mitch hooks a finger into the elasticated top of his pants, peering down and in, sniffs, then rummages through Beth’s supply of paraphernalia, producing a packet of nappies.
TuttingI’m tempted to comment, but that might result in me being pulled into what the women call ‘pee duty’. I’ve gotten through life so far never having had to change a diaper. I’m ha
