What would you do if you suddenly came into £172K a year?
That’s enough money to buy a seat on a space flight. Or get two packets of Revels at the cinema. Or colonise an uninhabited island and name it after someone you love. Hi, I’m Shari Low, Queen of the Isle of Liam Neeson.
According to a new study, £172K would be a mum’s annual salary if all the vital aspects of her role were charged at standard rates.
Incidentally, memo to my teenage sons: I’ll take it in cash or you can pay me in Curly Wurlies.
However, let’s get real. If motherhood was an occupation, there would be standards and targets. Unless I was going to do a Nick Clegg (be entirely ineffectual but still pocket my wages), I think my brood might want a refund on services that are decidedly below par.
If living in Chez Low was reviewed on TripAdvisor, I’d get three stars and comments like ‘landlady not at her best in mornings’ and ‘food is hit or miss’.
The salary calculation took into account roles including head chef, chauffeur, teacher, counsellor, cleaner and personal shopper.
My performance-related pay would immediately face PAYE deductions – Pay As You Eat. My culinary failings are legendary. I cook everything at 220 degrees and frequently forget what’s in the oven, resulting in potato wedges that could be used as missiles should we ever need to defend our shores.
I do operate a four-times-a-day chauffeur service, but there would be penalties for late arrivals and damage to the company jalopy. This week two tyres – count them, TWO – have fallen victim to the national scourge of the pothole, and I lost a wing mirror to a car coming the other way on a narrow road.
In the teaching category, it’s probably time the NEU (National Education Union) had me sacked. A few nights ago, I tried to help my junior Einstein with physics homework, despite the fact that I am to circuits and amps what Jeremy Clarkson is to diplomacy and peaceful resolution. I googled the answer, then pretended I came up with it myself. And – oh the shame – it was wrong. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be in the corner writing a 1,000 lines of ‘I must not pretend I once worked for NASA’.
In our house, counselling is a see-saw that frequently tips in the wrong direction. I’m regularly stressed, a tad neurotic, a hypochondriac, and at the moment I’m on an unfeasibly tight deadline for the next novel – so hello, sleep deprivation.
I’d love to say I handle potential issues in a calm, logical manner, but I prefer to go straight to panic and doom until someone talks me down from acute hysteria.
I’ve delegated most of the cleaning. If they’re big enough to operate a Playstation, they’re big enough to pilot the washing machine and the Hoover.
And, finally, my personal shopping skills have been firmly rejected. I’m no longer allowed to buy their clothes, and I fear they’ll use the flashbacks to the polar bear onesies and childhood pictures of me dressing them in matching outfits as mitigating reasons not to visit me when I’m old.
So that £172K annual salary? After deductions, penalties, and payments for sub-contracting the cleaning duties, my calculations suggest that I’m running at a deficit.
Boys, I owe you a tenner.
Do you want it in cash or Curly Wurlies?
Love, Mum xx