The weekend

What a weekend. Chief Spending Officer is trying to understand the concept of economies, as he tells me we can expect ‘cash flow issues’. Not entirely sure what he means by this, but nodded wisely all the same.

Saturday began with CSO talking to the builders who are working on his study. Apparently the ‘design concept’ he’s been working to is now ‘inappropriate’ to his ‘current economic situation’. Kazimir and Jan seemed to be listening carefully as he explained, but I don’t think the message got through. As soon as he’d gone they carried on with fitting the oak panelling. I don’t really blame them – our initial are already carved into them, so it’s not like we can send them back. I did try to explain this to the CSO, but he just stared at me again. And we have already ordered the carpet from those delightful Iranians, so we simply can’t cancel it. When I point out to the CSO that, considering the price we’ve paid for the carpet, cancelling it would cause an international incident, he whimpered again.

CSO’s single malt collection is taking a knock. He’s not even bothering to use the decanters at all, which sets a terrible example to the children. Diva-in-waiting was a little off about her Himalayan glacial water this morning, despite it being in her usual Dale Chihuly cylinder.

‘Daddy says we have to save money,’ she said. ‘What does that mean?’

Sometimes as a parent there are things you can’t easily explain.

Sunday morning found CSO passed out on one of the sofas again. I left a note for him explaining I was off for my massage and waxing. He knows those funds are, as I have pointed out already, ring-fenced. When I reached the studio the staff were a little bit anxious about funding. It seems to be catching, or at least a sign of the times. They’d read that I was having to be austere in my spending, and were a little concerned because they’d already put in the order for my spermaceti wax with Mr Yamamoto. I told them in no uncertain terms that waxing money was ring-fenced, and that CSO knew this. And so, another international incident was averted.

Returned home, freshly waxed and smelling of hand-crushed orange blossom petals (they fly them in just for me, they tell me), to find CSO looking through his wardrobe.

‘How can I find a new job if I haven’t got a decent suit to wear?’ he asked me. I pointed out he has plenty of suits to wear. Again, the look.

‘Those are old suits,’ he says, storming out of the room. ‘Someone might recognise one and then where would I be?’

Chatting to someone with an eye for detail and a good suit, I suggested, but then felt a little unfair. I hate to be seen in the same outfit more than once, so perhaps CSO is getting closer to me.

CSO is now hitting the vodka: cries of ‘Nastravya!’ or similar can be heard all over the house. He did try explaining to the little man with a big attitude why pre-Revolution vodka tastes so much better than anything made today, but was just a little beyond making sense when he did.

‘A new job, or bust!’ he shouts up the stairs before collapsing. I’m quite happy with my bust as it is, I resolve to tell him when he wakes up.

Day two

Chief Spending Officer stayed downstairs all night. Wailing continued until approximately 2am – sobbing and mournful shouts of ‘That silly cow has ruined me’. Apparently this girl from HR has done something very bad in escorting the CSO out of his office. I should ask him what it is.

I returned from the gym to find him awake but quiet. He tells me that his head hurts, and I am sure that nothing less than the gold-leaf-wrapped organic ibuprofen from Hendrick’s Pharmaceutical Emporium will do. When I point out that I would offer him one but we gave the last ones to diva-in-waiting when she complained of feeling poorly last week, he sat on the Uluru-tiled kitchen floor and whimpered a little. ‘Do Boots round the corner do an expensive range?’ he asked me, ‘because I’m sure the cheap stuff won’t work as well’. I took pity on him and got a taxi to Hendrick’s for another box.

We are meant to be cutting costs, so I asked for a smaller box this time. Only four tablets means, of course, less money spent on tablets, but also a smaller morocco leather-bound box for them. Apparently the lack of brass finishings on the small box also saves some money, and meant the cab wasn’t waiting so long for the box to be finished. I know it’s an indulgence, but one should never rush craftsmen at their work. Hand-rolled pills do seem to be swallowed that much easier, you know.

On my return, CSO was attempting to talk to the children. Something about Daddy not going to work for a while and having a ‘toxic reputation’ after ‘that stupid blog’. Whatever is that all about? I asked him, but he just stared at me in a funny way. Had to use a different card to pay the taxi – for some reason the one I’d used at Hendrick’s wouldn’t work. I have resolved to ask Hendrick’s to deliver next time to save on taxi waiting charges. Their premier service has the courier’s path strewn with rose petals, which I know the children will enjoy.

Day one

Chief Spending Officer home early today, carrying a large cardboard box. Box was, thankfully, plain. The horror of it being from Asda and branded like it is not a pleasant thought.

Apparently CSO was presented with this box this morning, and asked to fill everything from his office into it. Then two large gentlemen from Security and 'some skinny bitch from HR' followed him out of the building. Why this would be is a mystery.

He tried to explain, but I was just out to the gym so asked him to BBM me the story so I could read it on the cross-trainer. Message arrived and said "It's all your fault you vapid numbskull". Must have been sent in error.

I come back and he's £300 through one of his £900 single malts.

"Issss the end of everything!" he shouts. At my estimate of his rate of consumption it's the end of that bottle in about 20 minutes. Anyway, why's he waving the bottle at me? The bottle! It makes me wonder why we invested in a Waterford crystal decanter for each malt if he's not going to use them.

Perhaps he'll explain what happened this morning later on, I muse on the way to pick up a super-skinny frothy frappe at the coffee shop around the corner. I know it's £10 for a cup of cold milk froth, but it's *good* cold milk froth, and that's what counts.