Every Sunday morning, Craig gets up early, walks the dog and is up at Apes Hill Golf course by 7am.  I lie in bed listening to him move around the house, pretending to sleep so I don’t have to talk with him and just enjoy the anticipation of the peace that is about to descend as he closes the back door.  I love that he has the opportunity to enjoy his passion in a beautiful setting and I love my morning of silence and peace and quiet; for the boy would rather be talking to his mates on his X box,  than thinking he might want a conversation or to spend any time with his Mother.

Sundays in our home are so much more relaxed than frenetic Saturdays which involve getting the boy to his football games on time, trying to contain my inner coach as we sit on the sidelines watching him play, ferrying him and his girlfriend backwards and forwards, an evening event or activity and the tussle of bedtime which, for a nocturnal 14 year old,  is never the time he is happy to disappear.

I spend my Sunday mornings normally mooching around the fresh produce at Holders Hill farmers market, cleaning up the kitchen from the night before and sometimes wallowing in a fragrant bath with a good book.  This time is now sacrosanct in my week, it allows me  to put the past week behind me and plan, and sometimes write to-do lists, for the week ahead.

Normally Craig returns around 1pm, we have a spot of lunch and head over to the East Coast for a walk with the dog before starting the weekly battle of unfinished homework for the week ahead.

None of this happened today.

The heavens opened which means the market is a wash out;  Roscoe is on a hollow leg day which involves a mountain  of cooking and cleaning up as he eats one meal and then demands another within 30 minutes.  The dog wants to constantly play to get rid of all of his excess energy from spending a week mainly indoors and I respond to a couple of emails which demand immediate attention and which spike up my stress levels – more of this  in another blog.

2pm comes with no sign of Craig.  I send him a humourous prod on  Whats app reminding him we are here.  This gets ignored so an hour later I call and the phone rings and rings and rings.  No answer. My blood is now on a rolling boil.  We have reached the point where I am less tolerant of an errant husband who does not have the decency to respond to let me know he’s okay.

When he appears he is significantly worse for wear.  In fact I have not seen him quite so inebriated for a very long time.  Unlike many of the men I grew up with in the North of Scotland, Craig is a happy drunk; he likes singing, is tactile, loquacious, loud and generally full of bonhomie.  I am in no mood for such good cheer and after giving him a proper telling off, I head out in the car for an hour to calm down.  During this time he manages to burn the dinner which I’ve asked him to watch then turn off and he pesters Roscoe for conversation which is a real eye opener for them both.

I return to his obvious delight that I’m home and then he repeats all that he’s told me an hour earlier.  I try to salvage dinner and start to soak the burnt pots in the sink.  He’s not interested in eating the homemade chicken soup I give him and is obviously planning on today’s calorific intake coming from his two Wheetabix this morning and whatever liquid he’s poured down his throat on the 19th hole.

He insists on coming with me for the evening dog walk. He is obviously in the ‘drunken denial’ stage.  I purposely walk in front with Monty so I’m unable to comment on his inability to stay on the path,  although some of the swaying about can be attributed to the fact that he’s taken out his contact lenses and can barely see.  It takes him about 15 minutes to work this out and it does mean that he’s forlornly and repeatedly calling my name when we end up way in front of him, given he’s stopped for some ‘relief’.  He really is quite blind without his glasses or lenses.   I can only roll my eyes when on our way home he greets a neighbour with good cheer, hanging onto her garden gate for balance as he regales her with our Monty escapades from the last week.

We arrive home and I lock him in the den room downstairs as Roscoe’s French tutor is leaving.  I need her to return next week.

By now its dawning on him that he’s really worse for wear and we’re moving into the ‘apology’ stage.  This is then followed by the ‘passing out’ stage and then the’ waking starting to feel awful’ stage.  As I write, he’s prone on the sofa upstairs making soft groaning followed by loud snoring noises.

After my initial outburst I’ve remained calm and patient.  He’s obviously suffering from his inability to know when he’s had an elegant sufficiency.  He doesn’t need reminding.

After all tomorrow is Monday.  The start of the working week.  When at 0800 he’s opening a conference with a speech that remains partially written.

There is indeed a penalty for Sunday shenanigans.