First Born cut his hair on Friday morning. Apparently the casual notion that his fringe was too long and didn't look sufficiently wicked strolled through his head, so - without the use of anything as lame as a mirror, naturally - he got a pair of scissors and cut his own hair; he now looks like a tiny Howard Devoto. Except blond. And without the spectacles. ("So, not very much like Howard Devoto at all, then. Also, we were born in 1987 and have entirely no idea who Howard Devoto is." - Everyone.)
Now, Margret and I don't do that widespread thing of transferring ownership of the children depending on the situation; 'My son is a neurosurgeon,' 'Your son has just poured byriani behind the radiator,' that kind of thing. We do another thing. Margret, who is the one to spot Jonathan appears to be the first seven-year-old to be suffering from male pattern baldness, marches into the room where I'm sitting, reading the paper, and, looming over me with her arms knotted tightly across her ribs says:
'Jonathan's cut loads of his hair off.'
I look up at her and, after a few moments of thought, naturally reply:
'Tsk.'
She's unable to find herself entirely satisfied with this.
'So, that's it then, is it? You're all parented out now?'
'What am I supposed to do?' I ask, bewildered. 'He's cut the hair off. Do you want me to wrap it in frozen peas and race to the hospital to see if they can do an emergency weave?'
'I think,' she replies, 'that you should go and speak to him.'
And there it is. There is only one specific type of occasion when Margret feels I should 'go and speak to' one of the children, and that's when they have done something forehead-slappingly idiotic. The implication she is making is that Idiocy is my area. That only I can speak to the children when they've done something comprehensively crackbrained because, unlike her, I can speak The Language Of Fools. 'Maybe you can get through to him,' she's saying, 'Because you know how the asinine mind works.'
I drop the newspaper with a sigh, resigned, now, to the fact that I'll never get to find out what Kevin Spacey's favourite pasta dish is, and plod into the other room. Jonathan is happily drawing a picture at the table.
'Jonathan?'
'Yes?'
'Don't do stuff like that. Your hair looks stupid.'
I see his eyes flick, for the briefest moment, up to my hair. I'm dead in the water and we both know it.
'I like it,' he says.
'Oh, you like it, do you?' I laugh. 'So, it doesn't matter that everyone else in the world thinks it looks stupid? You like it? That's... Um, that's really good, actually. That's good.' I ruffle (what's left of) his hair.
Margret walks in behind me. Quickly, I furrow my eyebrows and point a sharp finger at Jonathan.
'So? Is that clear?'
'Yes,' he replies.
I walk out past Margret. 'Let's not say another word about this, then.'
Of course, next week he'll probably get into homemade tattoos, and his defence will begin, 'Well, Papa said...'
I have my bags packed ready.
At 2pm on Wednesday afternoon I went to the cinema with a friend of mine to see 'Battle Royale' (does Kinji Fukasaku know how to tell a love story or what?). Around 8.30pm I came downstairs from putting the kids to bed and started flicking through video cassettes. Margret, on the sofa, lowered the magazine she was reading on to her lap and asked suspiciously, 'What are you doing?'
'Trying to find a movie,' I said.
Margret sighed and shook her head. With a mixture of incredulity, anxiety and admonishment she replied, 'You've already seen one film today.'
Phew. Lucky we caught that habit before it spiralled out of control, eh?
Which reminds me; test your own self-control by reading this and seeing if you can resist the urge to draw any telling psychological insights from it:
Margret walked through the living room on Friday as I was watching 'Band Of Brothers'. Absently, she asked, 'Is this "Killing Private Ryan"?'
It's the nights I fear the most.
LOLWhich way - the distances were identical - to drive round a circular bypass (this resulted in her kicking me in the head from the back seat as I drove along).
Thus, when I cook a meal for four, the aftermath left in the sink as I carry the gently steaming plates to the table is a single saucepan and, if I've pulled out the all stops to dazzle visiting Royalty, perhaps a spoon. Margret cannot make cheese on toast without using every single saucepan, wok, tureen and colander in the house.
Originally posted by: dabuddha
LOLWhich way - the distances were identical - to drive round a circular bypass (this resulted in her kicking me in the head from the back seat as I drove along).
Originally posted by: PricklyPete
Really didn't find it all that funny until I read this...
"She really over-reacts whenever she catches me wearing her underwear."
While sorting out the stuff in the boxes, these are some of the things I've discovered that Margret actually packed away at our last house and brought to our new one:
A dentist's cast of her teeth circa 1984.
Empty Pringles tubes.
Rocks (not 'special ornamental rocks', you understand, just 'rocks' from our previous garden).
Old telephone directories.
Two carrier bags full of scraps of material.
Those little sachets of salt and sugar you get with your meal on planes.
Some wooden sticks.
Last year's calendar.
And yet, were I to throw her from a train, they'd call me the criminal.
Originally posted by: notfred
Thus, when I cook a meal for four, the aftermath left in the sink as I carry the gently steaming plates to the table is a single saucepan and, if I've pulled out the all stops to dazzle visiting Royalty, perhaps a spoon. Margret cannot make cheese on toast without using every single saucepan, wok, tureen and colander in the house.
SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO true.
Originally posted by: BDawg
Originally posted by: dabuddha
LOLWhich way - the distances were identical - to drive round a circular bypass (this resulted in her kicking me in the head from the back seat as I drove along).
Why is it that women are allowed to hit men? Shouldn't that be just as taboo as men hitting women?
Originally posted by: BDawg
Originally posted by: dabuddha
LOLWhich way - the distances were identical - to drive round a circular bypass (this resulted in her kicking me in the head from the back seat as I drove along).
Why is it that women are allowed to hit men? Shouldn't that be just as taboo as men hitting women?
# Look, if you don't understand the rules of Robot Wars by now then I'm just not going to continue the conversation, OK?
A girl hitting a guy doesn't always mean it is bad. Thumper hits me all the time, but it is almost always a good thing.Originally posted by: brxndxn
It frustrates me when I see a guy... A GUY.. take a beating from a woman. Like, it always happens in the mall. Some girl smacks a guy in the back of the head - or wherever most embarrassing. What the hell ever happened to smacking her back?
Why would I hit Thumper? I'm nearly twice her size, she can't seriouslly hurt me, but I could hurt her if I tried. Thus, I wouldn't hit her.Like Chris Rock said, "There's nothing worse than a girl that knows you won't hit her."
As I said, Thumper hits me all the time. But usually that is a good thing.Seriously, though.. if a girl ever puts you in a situation where you actually want to hit her, then she's a horrid bitch and you need to get some balls and get rid of her. Girls and guys need mutual respect. A girl that hits you has no respect for you.

 
				
		