Change of Plans

There's been a change of plans.

Turns out, the journalist my paper hired to replace me doesn't work.
Sadly, unlike a Sunbeam toaster, we can't send her back and get a new one, in a new colour, that fulfills the requirements.
There's just me.

Turns out the journalist is either a) useless, b) a drug addict, c) crazy, or d) all of the above.
That's a pretty good achievement for a 21-year-old.
I'd barely finished my cadetship by that age.

Turns out The Man's job sucks.
Nice people, lovely place, crappy wage and crazy boss.
And of course, my whipping up to the old home-town every fortnight to dig the 'incredible disappearing woman' out of the poo isn't helping our home life or our routines.

We've hit a crossroad.
They want me back at work full-time, at least until after Christmas when they can start hiring again and our new sales rep has settled in.
Turns out they want some security.
Me too...that's why I left in the first place.

I love my job. Love the paper I helped establish.
I worked my arse off for it for almost three years, compromised my family, my relationship and one or two of my convictions.
I'm loath to see it die, or at least stall, because there's nothing to fill the damn pages with.

Turns out I'm going back to work full-time.

Turns out we're very non-sexist and modern-thinking, as The Man is going to stay home and be a full-time Dad, work on The Farm and fold washing while I 'pursue my career' - or at least 'pursue bowls reports and market days' for six months.
Sad thing is, he's better at all this than I am - I just don't want that to be true.
And my one full-time wage is about the same as his full-time and my part-time.
It's all very logical but I'm still balking at the idea. I guess I'm just plain sexist.

Change of plans.
I should be used to those by now.

I guess I can kiss the lettuces goodbye now.
The Man - who from now on would like to be referred to as 'the domestic dictator' because house-husband is too pussy a term for him - is a lot of things, but he's no match for the damn earwigs, that's for sure.