Regular readers of Tales From The Zoo will be familiar with POD. The Princess of Darkness. My soon-to-be-eighteen-if-she-lives-that-long daughter. For whom the traditional teenage pursuits of stroppiness and singular bloody-mindedness have long since been elevated to the level of a vocation. A holy calling, if you will. With effortless skill and minimum effort she raises my blood pressure and tries my patience.
Recently, on Facebook, I observed that teenagers were God’s way of telling you you’re just too fecking happy. I was, I believe, not wrong.
Tonight, she added new twists to the anguish and pain with which other parents of teenagers will be wearily familiar. Events unfolded thus…
I was walking up the stairs when I noticed, yet again, our bedroom door wide open with the light on. Serenely burning away and illuminating, in a welcoming manner, all fortunate enough to be within proximity of its warming rays. A pleasant and cozy domestic scene, to be sure. Certainly, no less so because of the unpleasantly low temperatures currently assailing us. Save for the fact that I had not left said light burning or said door open when last I left said room, such a situation might well have passed unremarked. As such was not the case, however, I felt a certain obligation to investigate.
“Oy! Who’s been in our bloody room again without asking?” I felt entitled to inquire.
“Oh, that would’ve been me” replied POD.
“I see. Well I’m getting a bit pissed off with you continually going into our room, without permission, to pose and preen in front of the mirror”
“I think you’ll find I asked Mum, actually”
“I think you’ll find I don’t care for your bloody lip and tone of voice”
“Oh, soz for just answering the question honestly, like”
“Watch that lip, lassie”
“What lip? I’m just saying I asked mum and now you’re having a go at me! Again!”
At this point it happened. The point from which there could be no return. The point that now and forever would cleave my life in two. The point that would forever divide my allotted span on this God-forsaken hell-hole into ‘before’ and ‘after’.
“Oh, right and did your mum say it was OK to leave the light on in an empty room? Did she, eh? Did she? I think we’ll find she didn’t. And are you going to pay the electricity bill? Shall I start sending you the bill then? Are you going to pay it? Eh? Are you?”
Shit…
Did I really just say that? Did I really just turn into my own father? Jesus, yes I did. A grumpy old man bitching about the electricity bill, for Christ’s sake! What next? Cardigans? A pipe? Setting elaborate traps for the neighbours’ pets that dare cross my garden?
For turning me into my own father, a good thirty years before such a thing would be even remotely acceptable, POD will not be forgiven. Ever.
Still, our exchange did deliver the very real benefit of ending my angst as to a suitable gift for an eighteen year old daughter. A nice matching set of suitcases it is then.
Remember, dear readers; teenagers. God’s way of telling you you’re just too fecking happy.
You read it here first.