We all like laughing. The Best Medicine and all that. In our house it is especially important, considering the number of ways that I am able to mess up a situation. Just this evening I thought I would help and ended up destroying the fish fingers we were going to have for tea. Just the other day B could be heard to wail, “How many times do you have to be told?” Sadly it was at me rather than the three year old after I had managed to mess up a relatively simple shopping trip. It has got to the point where one of B and I’s favourite sayings is, “One day we’ll laugh about this.” Often uttered after I have managed to break something important, like the tea, or one of the children, or managed to pull a cupboard door off its hinges, or rendered something entirely useless just by walking in its general vicinity, also often uttered by me as I try to placate my distinctly unhappy wife. The time that really engrained it in our lives though was nothing to do with me. We were on our way down to stay with some friends in Cornwall and had made it about 4 hours into the journey. At which point our car, which we had purchased 3 days before decided that enough was enough and just ground to a halt. Nothing would persuade it to go (turns out the timing belt had snapped causing a lot of damage and an immobile car) and in the end we had to wait a good few hours for a tow truck to come and drag us all the way home. At some point during that wait one of us uttered the words, “One day we’ll laugh about this,” at which we both burst out laughing and stayed that way for a good few minutes. This may have been the result of the rising hysteria we both felt, but we were both much happier about life afterwards.
Wednesday, 5 March 2014
Thursday, 27 February 2014
There is only one person I have made angry enough for them to speak to me through gritted teeth. Which is enough people for me to know that it is really not a pleasant thing at all, and that that person really had to be very angry. It’s a funny thing, I can remember the time, I can remember being spoken to like that, and by whom, but I can’t remember what it was that I did. This, unfortunately, rather suggests that there were multiple occasions when it could have happened, which:a) Is true
b) Might suggest that N’s current phase of pretty consistent misbehaviour may not be quite the hereditary anomaly that I have been trying to persuade B that it is.
Monday, 24 February 2014
We went out for a meal at the weekend. It was a very good meal, plentiful, well-cooked, butter on all the right things (which in my estimation is pretty much everything), cheerfully served and with a selection of good ales. It also came with a handy assortment of good company so that was nice as well. I would go so far as to say that we ate in my favourite place in Coventry.
I had a game and blackberry pie. The menu had a warning to the effect that
“Our game is traditionally sourced and therefore may contain shot.”
I commented on this to B, as so far I have never come across any in any meal I have had there, which is both a relief but also a slight disappointment. N pricked her ears up at this idea and asked,
“Daddy, where is the game wearing shorts?”
I was able to point out the warning in the menu which said it might be (give or take an ‘r’) and we were able to carry on with the careful process of selecting lunch. This wasn’t the end for N though who spent most of the meal chuntering to herself about games in shorts. I think it’s best if we don’t disabuse her of the notion just yet, I don’t think I’m ready to have to explain what really happened to Bambi’s mother.
|Picture carefully cut so as not to reveal the shorts|
So thank you, G, for having a birthday that we got to celebrate, many happy returns, and the White Lion in Allesley, by way of my little girl’s mishearing, for planting a particular picture in my head. When the memory of the food has long faded from my memory, I will keep with me an image which, thanks to the wonders of the internet, I can bring to life before your very eyes. Ladies and gentlemen here is, game wearing shorts, with not a shot in sight. Just like my game pie.
|Hare today, gone tomorrow|
Monday, 17 February 2014
I had just got in from work this evening when this happened.
N: Daddy, I didn’t like the kiss you gave me.
N: Your mouth is awful
(Wait, it gets better)
N: Your mouth smells terrible
At least having a child will help me to learn to laugh at myself. Which, considering the guffaws I heard coming from S’s room is something I don’t think my wife needs any training in.
Friday, 14 February 2014
The cry split the air. The house shook with the ferocity of the yelling. The little girl wanted something, she wanted it now, and what she wanted was me. It’s always nice to feel wanted, although less so when the little girl with the big voice that wants you really should be asleep as she’s been in bed for a good twenty minutes or so.
Tuesday, 11 February 2014
Root Canal. Ugh. Two terrible words. Even apart they are not pretty, one is too round and the other jars with its sudden syllables but together they are enough to cause a grown man to cry (I think my major issue is that the long syllable followed by two short syllable construction of the words brings back memories of Greek poetry which is broken up into sections called ‘feet’ in which one long syllable followed by two short syllables are known as a ‘dactyl’ the Greek word for finger. I hear ‘root canal’ but what I really hear is my Greek tutor standing at the front of the class getting us all to say ‘dum di di, dum di di, dum di di’ over and over again, like a class of demented Alice in Wonderland groupies). This was the situation that faced me on Monday, no not Greek class, that feels like many years ago now, before children, no, the situation that I had been building myself up for all the previous week was having a root canal. An hour long operation followed by a day’s worth of pain and misery, of course I dealt with it in my cheerful way, spending most of the weekend moaning and then spending the hours following the operation either asleep or grumbling about how it felt sore.
Monday, 10 February 2014
Scene: Just sitting in the car waiting to go out on a Sunday afternoon
N: (Looking into the front window) there’s someone in our house.
Me: (Looking startled as we’d just locked up) Who?
Me: What’s she doing?
N: Getting our cheese.
I would like to make it clear that I don’t know a single person called Nora (although if I do I’m really sorry I’ve forgotten about you) N doesn’t know a single person called Nora and we have certainly never had a Nora who has come and got our cheese. Just another adventure in the feverish imagination of my three year old little girl!