SheWhoIsNeverWrong has been battling a series of brain-head-face-related mystery aliments over the last few months.
Part-migraine-part-head-thing-part-who-knows-fecking-what-thing, she’s undergone all manner of tests, scans, hospital visits and whatnot, only to now be told that a further monthly series of trial-and-error meds is the only remaining option.
The local quack, displaying the sort of compassion and humanity that would have Hitler nodding in delighted approval, has been as useful as a petrol-soaked asbestos fireman. The arse.
Given all that, SheWhoIsNeverWrong, as you might imagine, was thrilled and delighted to then find herself swamped by the Tsunami of all flu-bugs. Somewhat selfishly, I’ll frankly admit, I, too, was less than thrilled as it means that this weekend I’m in sole charge of sailing our domestic ship over the currently turbulent waters. Shudder…
And, of course, as is always the way with these things, one can always rely on The Spawn to set upon the few remaining rays of hope, kick the shit out of ‘em and send ‘em, weeping, running for the hills.
We’ve often remarked how they appear to share the screw-turning duties. As if they convene a Spawn Meeting, in secret, somewhere, and allocate each other tasks designed to inflict the maximum level of stress, frustration and killing rage upon us, the poor saps who, by a stroke of cruel genetic chance, have the pleasure of parenting them.
And so, on this particular Saturday, it was the turn of Satanicus Maximus to adopt the role of Grand Torturer.
“Dad, I need a new school bag today. Mum knows all about it”
“I see. So how much is that going to cost me?”
“Twenty five notes should cover it”
“Twenty five fecking quid? For a poxy bag? Are you having a laugh?”
“Oh, like, soz for needing school stuff!”
“Watch that lip, sunny Jim”
“But it’s the cheapest one in Blue Banana!”
“Oh, I see! Well, why didn’t you say so then? Had I realised that, this season, the stylish young student-about-town simply has to sport the latest cutting-edge haute couture from Blue Banana, well, obviously I’d have just divvied up the dosh, nae bother”
“But Dad, they’re calling me ‘brief case wanker’!”
“They’re half right, though, aren’t they?”
“Harsh, Dad. Very harsh”
“Well dream on. You can have a tenner”
Needless to say, this was received with the delight one usually reserves for news of bereavement, redundancy or the imminent release of a new Coldplay album. Credit where credit’s due, though, his spirit remained unbroken.
“Well, you’ll need to drop me off at the bus stop now”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I’ve wasted time arguing with you so now I’ll miss the bus to town”
“Tell you what, if you run now, you’ll just make it. Or, alternatively, you can continue to wind me up in which case I guarantee you’ll be in town before the bus, given the extraordinarily propulsive properties of my boot up your arse”
And to think people spend literally thousands of hard-earned pounds on IVF and all manner of fertility treatments! Jesus Christ on a cross of flaming fire, are they real?
I’d love to stop and chat some more but I’ve got Lem Sips to make, meals to arrange and those kid’s bodies won’t bury themselves, you know.