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The kids had waited up for me, so I put them to bed, read their bedtime stories, then went downstairs and snuggled down on the sofa with Sandra. At last we could both relax.
“Thank God,” she said. “I love those two, but it’s such hard work when they’re about.”
I wondered if she had any idea how hard that work was for a man so many years her senior. A man, moreover, who had so many other commitments and worries to drain his energies.
“You’re right,” I agreed. “Whenever I hear someone who hasn’t got children complaining about how hard he works, I always think to myself: you don’t know what work is, Mate, and God help you when you find out.”
She laughed.
“That’s so true. I’ve heard some of my singleton friends complain about how tired they are at the end of the working day. How would
