I don't have the cojones for chemical castration

Highway robbery is alive and well in good old Blighty I'm sorry to say.
Twenty five pounds for a cab to Heathrow?!? Extortionate is not the word. Or is it? Now I'm really confused.
I wanted to take the bus to the airport but Tara was having none of it.
So once again poor old Daddy Warbucks had to haul out the wallet. I decided not to kick up a fuss as I wouldn't see my wife and daughter for the next three weeks. They flew to South Africa for their holiday yesterday.
I know what you want to know. Did I cry? Should I be chemically castrated?
Yes. Sort of.
My eyes grew misty and I could feel that damn lump in my throat as I waved them goodbye.
To stem the onslaught of possible further waterworks I bit my lip so hard it actually spurted blood. All that did was aggravate the situation. Tears were shed alright. But they were painful, self-induced tears.
I don't think I shamed myself at all. As a man I can still keep my head up high.

On the way back I made use of public transportation. And not just because I'm a tightarse. I don't think you've truly experienced London until you've taken in the sights and sounds of Feltham from the 285.
The bus trip took forever. I could also sense that some of the passengers were staring at me. Maybe it was because my lips had now swollen to four times their normal size.
By the time I finally got home I was bursting for a pee. I rushed upstairs and was about halfway through my, um, "piddle," when from the corner of my eye I noticed a post-it note stuck to the bathroom mirror.
After reading the gentle reminder from the wife urging me not to forget my "chores," I wiped the seat. I'm renowned for my toilet etiquette.

I found the little post-it note rather amusing. Endearing even. That is until I sauntered into the kitchen to check on the beer situation.
Yellow post-it notes plastered EVERYWHERE.
On the oven, the toaster, the overpriced stainless-steel thingamajig Tara uses when peeling and dicing potatoes. The microwave, the fridge-freezer, the washing machine, the George Foreman grill.
Do I need to go on? The kettle, the peppercorn grinder, the antibacterial dishwashing liquid. Even the ugly out-of-date clock on the wall.
@#%$! post-it notes everywhere.
Strewth.

I don't think I come across as such a simpleton. It hurts to think my wife might.
Tara, if you're reading this let me try and ease your mind.
Take care of our budgies. Check. Spend quality time with the cat. Check.
I don't have the attention span of a five-year-old.
The most difficult thing about it all is trying to figure out what I'm going to feed Tinkerbelle.
Do I throw caution to the wind and try the rabbit and lamb in jelly? Or should I stick with the tried and tested smoked turkey and salmon for her tea?
It's not rocket-science.
I can do this.

Home Alone

Some work colleagues think I am the luckiest man alive.
"Three weeks without the missus? No more nagging. Just rest and relaxation," is how they view the situation.
I don't quite see it that way. I will miss my wife and daughter. And not because I'm probably going to starve or end up ravaged by scurvy.
Tara and Carolyn are flying to South Africa today to visit "Attila", my pet name for the mother-in-law.
All the bags have been packed and now we're waiting for the taxi to take us to the airport.
My nine-year-old is very excited. She's also slightly apprehensive.
"The plane's not going to crash?" she asked just a few moments ago.
"No honey. Everything will be fine. Now stop worrying. Why don't you play your Wii?"
There's nothing quite like "an adventure of galactic proportions" to cure your child's aviophobia. Thanks Super Mario Galaxy.
Unfortunately it lasted all of only two seconds.
"But what if we do crash?"
"Carolyn. Stop thinking like that. Nothing is going to happen."
"If the plane crashes into the sea mom and I will be okay. We know how to swim."
Sigh!

Apart from one or two hiccups this morning, it's been a pretty stress-free day.
I was barely out of bed when Tara sprung a surprise on me. I was going to have to undertake additional work due to her leaving for the rainbow nation. She had a list and all. And she absolutely insisted on giving me a hands-on demonstration with all three tasks.
Who knew there was an exact science to feeding the cat? Or watering the plants?
And then there's our, er, I mean, her budgies, Blue II and Chimes.
My wife's sermon on budgerigar care was so epic in scope that I couldn't possibly commit all the many minutiae to memory.
"Clean out their cage at least once a week and remember to do it outside," my wife waffled on.
Then she repeated herself. Again.
"Don't clean the cage indoors. You DON'T want to make a mess in the house," she said.
I dunno, but I DO think that was a veiled threat of some sort.

We have about ten minutes before the cab is due to arrive. Carolyn's given up on the Nintendo and Tara's pacing up and down nervously. I'm frantically trying to finish this entry.
"I'm going to miss you daddy," my little cherub says before giving me a big hug.
"Awwww, I'm going to miss you too monkey-nut."
"Are you going to cry when you say goodbye to us at the airport?" she asks.
At last! A question even I can answer.
There are times when a dad, even one who has read all the Ian Fleming novels, just doesn't have all the answers.
Shrove Tuesday? I have no idea. I also can't explain to Carolyn why bananas are yellow or why her mother gets at angry at me. Kids ask the darndest things.

I do have an opinion about blokes who like to blubber though. That's easy.
Under no circumstances should a grown-man cry. Ever. Maybe it's my Neanderthal gene talking here, but crying is a sign of weakness.
My brother John disagrees. He wept after seeing James Cameron's Titanic. And he's not even ashamed to admit it. I think it's a ploy to earn brownie points with girls. Trying to convince them that he has a sensitive or even human side.
No, a man who openly flaunts his emotions should be chemically castrated and put on the sex-offenders register.
Of course I didn't tell Carolyn this.
"No honey. Daddy doesn't cry..."
I don't think I came across all that convincing. Even to myself. Self- doubt started creeping in.
Was I going to degrade my gender by breaking down like a little girl at the boarding gate?
I don't really have time to reflect on this as I've just heard the car pull up into our driveway.
Maybe I should stuff a couple of Kleenex facial tissues in my jacket pocket.
Just in case.