You awake in a house of two children under 5 and you’re all alone. You fed them, dressed them, fed them again, changed a few diapers and of course, stopped a few fights. You then wrap them up and bundle them out across London in the freezing cold on several buses to attend a birthday party at some crazed soft play centre ( chuck-e -cheese place USA people) full of 1000 other crazed kids.
You cavort up and down slides with them for hours , let them eat cake and then deal with the effects of that. You then get them both home alive -bathe them – fed them (again ) and get them both to sleep before 7:30pm all the while preparing a steak dinner and doing an endless supply of dishes and laundry.
You then find yourself standing in front of a mirror, trying to take a picture to send to your wife at work to let her know that you’re the f****** man. Then suddenly you realise that she does this s*** every single day – week in – week out.
You take the photo anyway and post it on Instagram just to let everyone know that actually you lucked out and married the right girl!