J has gone to Weston-super-Mare for the weekend.

[1] I am home alone. Well, apart from two teenage daughters and two cats. That said, I might as well be on my own. Over the course of 48 hours I see more of the cats.

Daughter Number Two spends all her time talking to her mates on Snapchat. That's when she's not actually out with her friends. There doesn't seem to be a single moment of the day when she's not in contact with her friends. Maybe at 4am when she dozes off.

Daughter Number One is in her room watching videos or off doing her hospital radio volunteering. The only time I see either of them is when they want something to eat. Or money to go and buy something to eat. [2]

I spend my time washing, washing up or cleaning cat puke off the floor after the little gits break into the cupboard and steal cat food. This is a regular occurrence. They still don't seem to realise that the cat food wrapper they keep chewing to get at the food is indigestible.

On the fifth time I stoop to pick up half-digested gobbets of what was once a chicken (allegedly) I finally lose my temper. "Stop stealing things you bloody bitches," I shout at the cats who are looking at me with utter indifference from the top of the boiler.

"Dad, they can't be bitches. They're not female dogs," Daughter Number Two says as she materialises for a rare moment in the living room.

"Very droll," I say as I drop the chicken mush into the bin. To be honest I'm glad of the company for the 30 seconds it lasts.

At some point I speak to my sister in Liverpool. She has a two-year-old child to deal with. "He's in my face all the time," she says.

"That will change," I tell her as tumble weed rolls across the middle of the room.

It gets worse. I'm reduced to Twitter and petting the cats in lieu of personal interaction until J phones.

She's having a lovely time. Out for dinner. In the pub. Drinking wine. I'm on my eighth mug of tea of the day and listening to Robbie Savage on Five Live. That's how desperate things are.

I ask all the stupid questions that you'd ask about Weston-super-Mare. "Yes, she says, it is right on the Bristol Channel. Just opposite Barry Island. No, you can't see Barry Island. No, I haven't seen Gavin or Stacey. No, not even Smithy." [3]

"What have you been doing?" she asks. Not much. Building a meat mountain out of cat puke, I say. I've nothing else. Or almost nothing. I've just remembered the question I need to ask. The only one that matters.

"When are you coming back?"

[1] She knows how to live.

[2] That said, I'm the one who's sent out to Domino's.

[3] Come on, this is up to date compared to most of the cultural references that crop up in this space.