The Awards Night Apocalypse

(Or: Westley and the Great Backyard Uprising)

Friday. 4:30 PM.

If one more person says “Happy Friday!” I might spontaneously combust. It’s not happy — it’s triage.

Oh, you’ve got a lovely weekend ahead?

Nice. Mine’s about survival tactics.

I’m already late for a coffee catch-up, guilty for rescheduling again, and supposed to be getting ready for an awards night. You know, one of those events where you’re meant to look like a capable professional, not someone who reheated their coffee three times before 10 AM.

Meanwhile, in the backyard my two-year-old with the blonde curls is skipping around.

All is quiet. Too quiet.

Trouble’s coming.

The signs are all there:

Aura of innocence.

Mischievous grin.

Jackson the Rottweiler at his side.

Then comes the snuffle through the fence. Oh no. George.

The St Bernard next door — part bear, part wrecking ball, and fully committed to destroying my fence.

I freeze.

I know that sound. I should intervene. I should stop him.

Instead, I do what every exhausted parent does. I pretend it’s fine, and jump in the shower anyway.

Maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. I only need 3 minutes!

(For context: it’s never different, and you’re not getting 3 minutes.)

Because one of Westley’s favourite pastimes (usually timed perfectly for my Zoom calls) is starting a full-scale riot between George and Jackson. He finds a sturdy stick, pokes the fence. Giggle. Poke again.

Until George takes the bait.

And when George takes the bait… it’s over. The world shakes. Birds evacuate. My sanity leaves the chat.

I put my head under the water, relax for just a moment…

Then - chaos.

Westley’s laughter. A thunderous crash. Two hellhounds in mortal combat.

The Dread Pirate Roberts has taken the yard. (Yes, I named him after The Princess Bride. No, I didn’t realise it would define his personality.)

I bolt out the door, dripping wet, towel clutched tight, dignity MIA.

And there he is. Westley, sprinting past, shrieking with joy, wearing my best stockings on his head like a bandit mask.

The stockings I needed for that night.

Gone. Ruined. Now I have to shave my legs.

Meanwhile, Jackson and George are trying to bring down the fence (and possibly the entire suburb) while my son leads the charge like the pirate he was named after.

It’s 5:20 PM.

I’m half-naked, the dog’s feral, my toddler’s leading a mutiny, and I’m due to collect my name tag in forty minutes.

I don’t remember what I wore that night. Just standing on the deck at Little Stiller, hair wind-blown, legs gleaming, thinking I hope I don’t look like I was streaking across the yard to break up a dog fight half an hour ago.

Fridays aren’t for sliding quietly into the weekend. They’re for surviving the uprising in my backyard.

So please — don’t say “Happy Friday.”

This has been Episode 2 of The Westley Chronicles where chaos is CEO, toddlers run PR for the apocalypse, and I’m just holding the towel, the fence, and my composure.

If you laughed, nodded, or felt personally victimised by the phrase “quiet Friday,” hit Subscribe to follow along.

Because the only thing better than laughing through the madness… is knowing you’re not the only one doing it in a towel.

💚 Trinity