Friday night fleeing from the scrum like the last thing on our minds are other people’s kids: the outrageous, hysterical bashing we take hour by hour as we just try while each successive boss quickly forgets front lines and asks for ‘evidence’ of piling into the meat grinder
Then something tiny reminds why we’re even here: a flood of tears perhaps as dogs have died or that kid who says “I’m a microwave bzzzzzzzzz” and despite our glowering frowns we smile so hard we cry