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Condoms and Aprons

There's something magical about watching Freddie Mercury throw two handfuls of condoms at Roger Taylor's face. The way Roger's eyes almost disappeared completely behind his eyebrows as he yells "you chicken fried fuck!" in slow motion. How Freddie dropped the bag and ran from the kitchen, Roger hot on his tail, whilst John Deacon, Brian May and myself stood back and watched it all unravel.

"So, drinks anyone?"

"Dinner and a show." Brian laughed, settling himself into one of our kitchen chairs. John followed suit, requesting a water and taking a seat to observe. I looked bloated, but was really just carrying a human inside my body. No big deal.

The condoms, unfortunately, were mine. In an attempt to strap Roger's wrist with ice, I had asked Freddie to grab my nursing bag from the cupboard, only for him to find spare condoms from a class I ran once at Truro High School. I kept telling myself You can clean it out tomorrow but I wasn't paying the price for my procrastination. I was being rewarded. Richly rewarded.

Advice of the day? Procrastinate. It will result in condom fights.

________

"Babe. I'm not much of a rules person but there is NO way you are cooking in this kitchen dressed in just your underwear."

In bright green boxer briefs, Roger opened the fridge, pulled out the carton of orange juice and proceeded to drink it straight from the carton right in front of me.

"I don't see why not? It's my house."

Men. Ugh.

"Babe, imagine yourself cooking in just those and you open the oven and it's really hot. I'd prefer fried chicken over fried Roger nips."

His face twists into a grimace as he runs his hands over his chest and then onto his shoulders. I take what I consider to be a sneaky moment to take in the man in front of me. Scruffy hair, thick eyebrows, his little bit of belly.

"I bought an apron for this."

"Roger Meddows Taylor went shopping and purchased an apron?"

With a cheeky grin, Roger left the kitchen and returned a moment later, slightly more clothed. He was sporting a white apron with the words 'Mr Good Lookin' is cookin' and the most childish grin I've ever seen on him. He pulled a second apron out for me, making me scream.

"Roger it has male genitalia!"

He unfolded the apron, designed to make the wearer look like the statue of David, complete with man parts, leaving nothing to the imagination. It was the best yet worst thing I've ever seen.

As I messily and slowly guided Roger through the apparently hard process of making a cake, I did my best not to look down at what I was wearing, unsure of wether I would laugh or cry upon seeing it. By the time the oven timer dinged, there was flour in my hair and on Roger's face, a result of a miniature food fight. I watched him pull the perfectly cooked vanilla sponge from the oven, and dropping it ungracefully onto the cooler rack.

"I can only hope raising a kid is that breezy."

I slapped him gently on the backside, laughing as I left the kitchen in my pyjamas and apron. He thought a kid would be easy? Time to change that.