Flamed

It's been a weird, bookended week of abuse in our household. It started on Monday when I got a text from the Wife about a conversation she had with the Boy.

"Mum?"
"Yes, Boy?"
"If everyone in the world was in one place..."
"Yes?"
"Would they be able to lift dad up?"

Now that's just plain rude. I've been carrying a bit of holiday weight, it's true. And admittedly that holiday was in 1996. And I have been referred to as a "chubby c***" by two separate people who'd never met before. But...

Aw, the hell with it. The Kid has got a point. Although I do feel that this contempt may have been caused by me. The day before we'd been in the car and, for want of anything sensible to say I asked him;

"If you were a building, Boy, what building would you be?"

He thought about it for a long moment and came up with what he clearly thought was a suitable answer.

"A hotel. So lots of people could live inside me. And then I could charge them money."
"Wouldn't it be better to be a bank?"
"Why?"
"Because then you'd have billions of pounds!"
"But I want people in me."
"Don't say that."
"What?"

And then there was an awkward silence. After a few minutes he said.

"Dad. Can I say something to you?"
"Sure, what?"
"I'm not talking to you."

And to prove it, he carried on talking to me about how he wasn't talking to me until I didn't want him to talk to me any more. Eventually, distracted by a passing car he suddenly said;


"I know what kind of car we drive."
"Really?"

I replied, glad we'd changed the subject. And as sure as eggs is unfertilised chicken ovum, he instantly made me regret it.

"Yeah. It's a Shitroen."
Girl: "What's a Shitroen?


Fortunately, the next day I was removed from the simmering anger of the Boy by the virtue of taking my Ma to the hospital. It was nothing serious, just a check up with her neurologist. I'm quite glad it was nothing serious because getting to the hospital, going to the appointment and getting back home took a total of nine hours all told. This was partly because I had an off-peak train ticket and wasn't about to pay an extra five quid to come home straight after the appointment. So, we sat in a coffee shop and talked for two hours. Weirdly we got to talking about my inability to attract women in my youth, which led to this beautiful moment between a mother and son.

"I spent three days in Amsterdam, everyone else had a great time and the only person I pulled was a mental German."
"A man?"

I mean, seriously. I'm married. I've got two Kids. When are my parents going to believe I'm not gay?

When I got back home I assumed (wrongly) that the Boy had forgiven me. Turns out, he hadn't.

"Boy, how about I teach you how to tell the time?"
"I'm trying to lick my foot at the moment."
"Wh-? Just... come here. Look at the clock."
*Sigh*
"So when the big hand is pointing at twelve and the little hand is pointing at six, what's the time?"
"Stupid o'clock."

I gave up at that point. The Boy, however did not give up. At the end of the week, as I picked him up from school he said;

"We're going to make you do lots of exercise when you get home, dad."
"Really? Why?"
"You don't get enough exercise."
"What? I cycle to work! I do about forty miles a week!"
"Yeah, but you haven't changed. You still look like that."
"What?"
*Singing* "Fatman! Fatman!"