Portuguese Cozido on Wednesday. Jocasta’s now been in Melbourne for two weeks and nary a casserole has appeared. I’ve sent The Space Cadet out onto the pavement looking hungry, without so much as a flying kebab in response.

These days, you are meant to cope. In fact, I’m not even allowed to mention that it’s been a bit of a challenge.

‘Melbourne? Lovely. Two weeks? Super. I’ll hardly notice you’ve gone.’ This, I think, goes for both men and women. Since housework and childcare is such a contested area, you can never admit the crucial nature of your partner’s contribution. ‘Getting the children to sport on time? Oh, that was no trouble at all. And isn’t it pleasant having that hour walking around the park in the bracing air while you wait for them to finish?’

Normally, I do the washing and ironing during the week and she does the weekday cooking. That way we’ve got plenty of time on the weekends to have a stand-up row about the cleaning. Now I have to do all three plus argue with myself about the state of the kitchen. Lord knows how single parents cope.

By Tuesday, the kitchen floor already features eight dead cockroaches plus a patina of dropped food. By Thursday, there are fifteen dead cockroaches, who appear to have organised their bodies across the floor to spell out the phrase ‘Sweep Me’.

The parenting quandaries soon multiply. First problem: the phrase ‘Mum would have let me’. Even when we are both in the house, The Space Cadet knows how to play one against the other. Better, if the other is 800 kilometres away. And so he makes the claim that, after soccer practice, Jocasta showers him with junk food. This seems unlikely. I deny the request and instead offer a drink of water. The Space Cadet says I’m being ‘harsh’—so falling in love with the word that he starts calling me ‘Mr Harsh’ and ‘Inspector Harsh’ and ‘Professor Harsh’ and ‘AA Harsh’ and ‘Mrs Harsh’. It’s a joke that lasts all fortnight. My new name, in some creative variant, greets my every parenting decision.

And if The Space Cadet thinks I’m harsh, Batboy believes I’m incompetent—blaming every household problem on the fact that I’m running the show. Bringing us to the rule: the further away the other parent is, the more wonderful they become.

For the last couple of months Batboy has been learning to referee soccer games in the belief that he’ll earn twice what they pay at Kmart. Already he’s been issued with his official red and yellow cards. ‘You’re gone, mate, gone,’ he says producing the yellow card with a flourish. ‘Mum’s been away for four days, and look—there’s no bread and there’s no milk.’ He seems delighted with this observation. I offer him cereal with a splash of water and mumble that things aren’t so bad. Batboy stares me down. ‘Are you telling me I’m wrong? That’s breach Y16. Dissent against the ref by word or deed.