|"I love Borrie boy"|
|"The relashonshup me a Boris share"|
|"I miss Boris"|
|"I love Borrie boy"|
|"The relashonshup me a Boris share"|
|"I miss Boris"|
|"A stranger is just a friend I haven't made yet!"|
With two warped children, a cat, a horse, a pair of demanding full time jobs, a house that needs more work than Donald Trump's hair and a mortgage so large it could save Tokyo from Godzilla we decided our lives weren't busy enough. So we got a dog.
With the Boy aged nine and the Girl aged seven we hadn't had the thrill of collecting someone else's shit for some time, and some things are just hard to quit.
The Dog (as it will hereafter be known) was named by the children, which is why she regales in the name Lily Barcelona Long Legs Von Schtupp Van Dog For Christ's Sake Stop Pissing Under The Table. Technically the last bit isn't her name it, just gets said a lot.
The Kids are naturally over the moon. One more animal for the Girl to patronise, and for once the Boy seems to have noticed one of the pets.
"I'm starting a dogging club at school."
"DOG club. A club for dogs."
"Yeah, I'm going to call it 'Woofters'"
Which is not always a good thing.
"Yeah, yeah. I know. 'No twerking in front of the Dog.'"
(Not to leave the Girl out of the ridiculous conversations, the following was about her godfather
"You know Uncle Andy is a waitress on a plane? Does he have to wear lipstick? "
And whilst there are some up sides to having a dog, there are some downsides. Such as having a squirrel in your sofa.
The other day I was sitting on the sofa with the back door open whilst the Dog was outside. As I sat there something hurtled into the room and flung itself into the air directly at my head. I have a vivid mental image of a squirrel, eyes wide, limbs splayed out, mouth almost forming the the same word I said as I ducked:
It crashed into the window as the Dog came bounding into the house with a goofy look that said "Where'd my friend go?"
Having composed myself I quickly opened the windows and went to the kitchen to find a broom because apparently I live in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. I then flipped the sofa over and... nothing. It had gone. Probably via the open window.
Or so we thought until two days later when the Dog went loopy trying to get under the sofa, and then found squirrel poo on the floor next to it. Obviously we checked inside it (half expecting a crazed and now carnivorous squirrel to go into a berserk rage) but it had left the sofa, and spent a day living in the kitchen knocking everything off the windowsills. I think it has now left, but we can't be sure.
Looks like we've got another pet.
|"Get in the water you big Jessie."|
Thursdays are a ball ache. In particular because I have to take the Kids to their swimming lesson, which appears to be run by the last surviving concentration camp guards dressed as a bunch of menopausal women.
For a refreshing change of pace the Boy's swimming teacher has stopped swimming alongside the Kids whilst criticising their lack of Olympic potential. Now she sits in (or more precisely - wears) a chair and hectors them loudly from the side of the pool. So it appears even buoyancy isn't a requirement for a swimming teacher these days.
This makes me quite ragey, so today I decided to deal with it by staring angrily at the back of her head and not saying anything. It's a good job she didn't turn around because I'd have had to look somewhere else.
Exiting the swimming pool then became an intricate rage inducing maze of bovine parents with vacuous expressions standing in doorways. The Boy then turned getting changed into something akin to pushing an eel into a balloon. While every other kid in the place left fully dressed he failed to negotiate his way into a pair of pants. So I did the parent-wanting-to-shout-at-child-in-public thing by giving him a wide eyed silent snarl that promised lots of shouting later. This would have worked admirably if he'd been paying bloody attention.
So the shouting happened outside. I stomped off to the car, the Kids dawdling in my furious wake. Instead of getting in the car, they started having a fight.
Dear reader, I'm not proud of what happened next for reasons that will become immediately obvious. I must have been thinking of Withnail and I when an emotional ketchup burst came out and I yelled;
Several points to make here.
1. I have a car
2. I was standing next to a school
3. There was, on the other side of the road, a man mowing the lawn who actually stopped to look at me
4. The Girl burst into tears and then, crucially, cried:
"I WANT MY MUMMY!"
On the up side I managed to get a wheel spin out of my twelve year old diesel dustbin. Plus the Girl (who is vegetarian) dropped her guts* in the car so pungently I nearly hit a lamp post.
I'm writing this during the Kids interminable Saturday morning athletics class in an effort to have somewhere to put my eyes. I rue the invention of Lycra, particularly because the athletics instructors fit into one of two categories: very fit or bizarrely immense. Either way, when they start demonstrating squat thrusts or lunges right in front of me the effect is the same - my eyes try to get out of my ear.
Athletics is only one of many extracurricular activities the Kids are signed up for. Earlier this week the Boy had a social engagement for which I was his designated driver. Last year he joined the cubs, which strangely he seems to enjoy in a totally unqualified manner. I say "strangely" because you often find him saying things like;
"I love playing Lego, but I wonder if it might be a bit dangerous. "
"Yes, it's right up there with using a rectal thermometer on a crocodile."
Anyway, his social engagment was something called a "Gang Show", which I assume wasn't run by the Bush Boys. I dropped him off outside the local theatre and was chatting with Akela when he notice that I had a lot of blood on my thumb.
"Industrial injury? "
Now, I could have said that I'd cut myself building a log cabin, or that I'd caught it on my lathe, or that it was a shark attack. Because as a man I will occasionally be sparse with the truth if I think it might postpone someone's inevitable realisation that I am, when all is said and done, a complete tool. However, I went with;
"I was zesting a lemon. "
Which is about the most middle class injury you can get aside from getting a paper cut from your copy of the English Language version of Le Monde Diplomatique.
Plus - I've never zested a lemon in my life. I actually did it grating a carrot whilst making coleslaw. And why was I making coleslaw? Because we're too cheapskate to buy it from the supermarket.
Naturally the response to my reply was a long silence, followed by:
I don't know why I'm trying to convince people I'm middle class. I'm about as middle class as a string vest or a pack of 20 Rothmans. I'm sitting in a sports hall in the rougher end of town and my Kids are the least well dressed here. In fact they look like they're going to tarmac someone's drive. And there's nothing wrong with that. I should embrace my working class heritage. So I will do that back by sitting back and reading the paper.
Once again I'm away from the family on a business trip. This time I'm at an international conference at which I'm due to give a presentation to delegates from Europe, Africa and North America on a very weighty subject. This seems remarkably foolhardy on the part of my employers as only yesterday I found myself utterly foozled by the simple fact that the Wife has the same surname as me.
We are all, at heart, the children we once were. I suspect that even Stalin wondered how he'd got from a small boy in Georgia to the most feared man in the world. Shortly before polishing Hitler's skull no doubt
I realise I've just compared myself to Stalin.
It doesn't feel like thirty years since I was asking questions like this, from the Girl:
"Mummy, when are we going to Denmark?"
"When are we going to Denmark? No, not Denmark. Where did you say we were going?"
Or, as my Dad always like to recall, the day I asked:
"How many commandments are there in the Ten Commandments? "
The correct answer is eleven, by the way. The last one is the most important: Thoult Shall Not Get Caught.
Still, at least he only told everyone he met about that. He didn't, say, put it on the Internet.
You see, whilst the Kids can be excused their eccentricity because they're kids, my penchant for rampant buffoonery isn't as easy to shake off. I still deal with the world on the level of a six year old, so my life is a constant battle with social ineptitude.
Many years ago I was talking about this with a deeply religious friend, who in turn told me that she felt incredibly awkward talking about sex with her boyfriend because it made her feel dirty.
"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you're a bit odd."
She said, not unkindly.
"And I won't tell anyone you're frigid. "
I replied in a similar tone.
Apparently that's a no-no. She used words which rhymed with " truck" and "bunt". To this day I'm still a bit baffled about her reaction. And the reaction of everyone I've told about this (normally a whistling inhale of breath and a look of disdain).
She's a nun now, by the way.
Even today I've been crippled with the fear that I'm going to look odd carrying around a packet of chocolate digestives at this conference (I'm a mad man for chocolate digestives). It's only that, by pure luck and that I found the hotel have supplied a little paper bag for such an eventuality.
And it's apparently a "sanitary" bag. So that's good.
* For those of you that live outside of the UK, Southend is like Las Vegas, only with less commitment.
OK, I'm going to be honest, we got Netflix and frankly Breaking Bad is a bit addictive. But hey, don't have a pop at me, when did you last write to me, eh? EH?
Recently a friend of mine wrote quite movingly about the experiences he'd had over the course of his life so far, and how he hoped to have the opportunity to pass on his knowledge. Naturally I couldn't miss an opportunity to piss on someone's barbecue. I made the point that I'd been passing on my "wisdom" for eight years with the net result being I now had to share my house with two raving maniacs.
*With due sense if dread and resignation* "Yes?"
"Have you ever worn girls clothes?"
"You'd look nice in a dress."
"Thanks, Girl. "
"When we get home you could put on mummy's wedding dress and then she'd laugh when you answered the door."
"She probably wouldn't laugh."
"YOUR BOOBS WOULDN'T FIT! "
"Shut up, Boy."
For the benefit of posterity, I would look fabulous in the Wife's wedding dress. I have a lovely turn of ankle. However I'm a gentleman and it doesn't do to look better than your wife.
Last week the Boy (in his typically unwitting way) confused a friend of the mother in law to the point of apoplexy just by telling her his middle name.
"That's a nice name. "
"Yeah, it's my dad's dad's name."
"Yeah, it's quite sad really, we don't get to see him much any more."
"That's a shame, why? "
"He died before I was born."
There was a time when I could come home from work put my feet up and watch some telly before the Wife came in and pointed out the washing up needed doing, the laundry was getting rained on and the house was on fire. These days I have to brace myself to ask the question
"How are the Kids?"
"The Girl is climbing the walls."
"Oh god, what is it now? Did you confiscate her throwing knives?"
"No. She's literally climbing the walls. Look."
In the living room the Girl had removed her socks and was scaling the wood surround on the wall. She climbed all the way to the ceiling, before throwing herself backwards onto the sofa. Since the Girl has the bone density of hardened steel, this ejected the cat from the sofa, who exited the room at close to light speed. It also made me have an aneurysm. Since then I've been trying to source Kryptonite on eBay.
God forbid I bother asking the Kids what they did at school. Last time I did it the Boy appeared to go into Factory Reset. We had to teach him to walk all over again.
It doesn't help that over the "festive period" I've been battling manfully with tooth ache caused by a broken wisdom tooth. Battling manfully is defined by crying in the car park outside the dentist surgery, I should add.
Dealing with my Kids when I'm happy is tough enough. Let alone when I feel like someone is hitting me in the face with a rusty shovel. I've been a bit shouty of late. The up side is that because it's tooth ache, no one can understand what I'm shouting about. So for most of Christmas the Kids treated me like that bloke at the local supermarket who shouts at the cheese. Wary incomprehension.
Still, after an emergency tooth extraction and having three fillings (one of which was so deep the dentist had to tie a rope to his feet to get back out again) I'm back to being the usual reasonable person that everybody expects me to be. Now bugger off, it's the season 4 finale.