And then, dear Reader, Mr Irvine was made redundant. Yes, again. He had worked for the same vast American bank for umpteen years and had really, really toiled for them. Yes, I know he was paid stupid money, and yes, I know no-one will have sympathy, but I have to tell you that he earned every single bloody sou of that pay packet. An absolute minimum of 12 hours physically in the office every day, plus travelling, mean that wherever we lived he was very seldom at home. Plus weekends sometimes, and lots on the phone, and latterly flying overnight to South Africa every six weeks for two working days, and the stress of hoping he had got it right (which, incidentally, he always did) and the knowledge that lots of people's pensions depended on him - believe me, he worked harder than anyone I know. For five years he was the No1 rated analyst in Europe for his sector, and that doesn't happen by chance. So when they dumped on him from a height, it was horrendous. All I could think to do on the day itself was to ring and yell at someone in his office to get champagne and make a party of his leaving. It was disgusting, I shrieked, that he was about to leave the building and no-one was marking his going in any way. When I drew breath the poor chap on the other end managed to squeak that they had already rolled out the red carpet, and fizz had flowed, and people had cried, and that everyone was gutted and the place would never be the same again.
And, looking back, it was probably a good thing. Despite all our best efforts Eeyore and Jib had never really got to know each other. It was nobody's fault: in London Bug and Whizz had stood a chance of bumping into their father occasionally - perhaps in the hall, or the bathroom doorway maybe. At least they all actually slept under the same roof, even if they weren't always aware of the fact. But to Jib, Eeyore was someone who blew in on a Thursday night, vanished again on the Friday, reappeared on Friday night, stayed around - often asleep, or reading, or issuing orders - until Sunday night, and then disappeared again. Over the months of Eeyore's enforced sojourn at home the two of them gradually became acquainted and, it became clear, each liked what they saw in the other.
I, of course, reacted to their burgeoning relationship in exemplary fashion - not. I facilitated and encouraged their growing closeness - maybe. Not for one second did I resent at all the way in which they took to whispering to each other while looking at me sideways. Did I care that they quickly came to prefer each other's company to sharing time with me? No! Did I bristle when I remembered the sleepless nights I had spent keeping an ungrateful, heartless, asthmatic toddler breathing while his father snored next door? No! Did I think that either was being even slightly disloyal to me in buddying up so blatantly? No! Of course not. Not I. Or anything.
The crunch came when Eeyore accompanied me - unheard of, this - on the school run one afternoon. We stood with the other parents (mothers actually, to a man) huddled against the Lincolnshire rain under an inadequate portico waiting for the little darlings. Whizz of course came marching out bang on time and immaculate with her little red felt hat on, duffel coat done up, book bag swinging. (Divine.) Jib arrived in a whirl of loose clothing and sheets of paper - and, for the first time in his life, shot straight past me into Eeyore's wide-spread arms.
The snap of my heart breaking would have been deafening had it not been for the silly chorus of mothers, billing and cooing. I'm afraid I rolled my eyes and got in the car. Not my finest moment.
