It was about 6.05pm and he really should have known better.
The box of full of dirty nappies by the front door should have been his first clue, even if he hadn't noticed the Frankenstein garden, simultaneously full of overgrown weeds, struggling lawn patches and mostly dead rose bushes.
Perhaps the noise from within should have sent him running - three different female voices, all yelling simultaneously from different parts of the house.
A lesser man perhaps would have left quietly, hoping not to be noticed. Yet he knocked regardless. Or would have if I had actually managed to close the door after returning home from daycare pick-up with two screaming children (I had accidentally squished the Bombshells's head in the car door and the Curly Mop was hungry and demanding food).
He stood at the screen door and shouted a polite, and vaguely Pommie hello over the din.
'Oh thank god!,' I said, not actually noticing the man wasn't my husband.
'Umm I'm here from Aussie Farmers Direct', he said.
Aussie Farmers Direct? I started salivating at the thought of freshly baked bread dropped silently on my doorstep twice a week, milk magically appearing just as we were beginning to run out, and delicious cuts of meats that had never seen the inside of a freezer. My friend had goodies delivered from Aussie Farmers Direct, and her BLTs were always fabulous - freshly baked bread, farm fresh salad and delicious bacon. I wanted to be an Aussie Farmers Direct mum.
I walked away from the dinner I was cooking on the stove, leaving it to hiss and spit and brown alarmingly fast.
I walked away from my eldest daughter, stuck on the toilet, afraid to hop off and wipe her own bottom because there was a small pile of sand on the toilet seat and her knickers were now inside out.
I walked away from my youngest daughter, singing to herself as she rubbed crumbed chicken in her hair.
I walked to the door and smiled at Gavin because he was going to make it all better.
He started the spiel, although I already knew it. My friend had long sung the praises of AFD and since I had tried both the competitors and they had failed miserably, I had been waiting for the day when I could switch teams.
The dinner spat and burned.
The eldest howled hysterically on the toilet.
The youngest gave herself a head massage with a chicken breast.
Somewhere between learning about the three hour old bread and hot scones and the farm fresh cuts of lamb my brain dug itself out of its gourmet gorm and tapped my sanity sharply on the shoulder. 'Uh, dinner's burning.'
'You'd better come in,' I told him.
So as I tried to resurrect dinner he completed his sales pitch. I was already sold, but his presence was keeping the man-eating toddler happily distracted and by this stage the eldest had emerged from the toilet, blessedly dressed and not sporting too many obvious side effects of having been abandoned on the loo.
While the toddler rummaged through his bag looking for food, and the Kindy kid sulked in the corner, I signed on the dotted line and poked at the mess on the stove. I was sold.
He had run out of the complimentary freezer bags but assured me he would be back within half an hour to drop one off. By the time he had returned, my husband was home and the four of us were settled almost quietly at the kitchen table eating dinner. Gavin practically threw the bag from the end of the verandah so it landed on the nappies by the front door.
With a nervous wave he turned and ran. Apparently he did know better.
Disclaimer: I am not being paid any monies from Aussie Farmers Direct for this dripping endorsement of their service, but if they want to send me some, that'd be fine by me.