“Of course, after an orgasm you will have to have a shower,” said the wife.
“Well, I won’t have any of those then,” DS1 harrumphed.
Ah, the perils of telling your child that their expression made them appear orgasmic, and then having to explain what that meant.
Sometimes giving him an insight into adult life isn’t always the best policy.
And it seems that even that height of pleasure won’t improve things on the washing front.
Not going out
Last week, DS1’s friend Joanne was at ours every afternoon, as I had been picking her up from a holiday club while her parents were at work.
Holiday clubs – the saviour of many a parent. That is if you can actually get your child to go to one. Even the prospect of a club offering a full-day playing football and other sports, and his best mate going as well, couldn’t entice DS1 to leave the house.
Instead (with Joanne’s help) he built an extension to the bed-den he already has in his room.
The whole bedroom is now covered in sheets (hanging precariously from various points), so that the only way to access his inner sanctum is to crawl under bedclothes. As for accessing his wardrobe to put clothes away, forget it.
Having left his room impenetrable, they adjourned to the kitchen looking for sustenance. Joanne quickly spotted the infamous meal schedule he has pinned up next to the fridge, and was soon asking to extend the hours of her stay so she could indulge in such culinary treats as waffles and toad in the hole.
Funnily enough, when we arranged for DS1 to go back to Joanne’s for a sleepover on the Thursday, so that the wife and I could paint the town a pale shade of red (we are knocking on a bit), they opted to have tea at Joanne’s.
“We don’t want leaves,” they unanimised.
That rogue bag of salad in the fridge has since been consigned to the bin, unopened.
DS1 was excited by the prospect of the sleepover. “That means I won’t have to spend the whole day with Dad on his birthday,” he yippeed.
“I’d imagine he’d quite like that,” Joanne responded.
How very insightful. Wise before her time that one.
Meat pie, sausage roll
The other weekend we went to watch Frank Lampard’s Chelsea in a preseason friendly at Reading. DS1 was, as ever, excited by the prospect of going to see the Chels. But his anxiety once more managed to get in the way of him fully enjoying the experience.
As soon as we got on the train to Reading, he shut down. First, he had to find a double-seat – he takes the window one – preferably at the end of a carriage, so he can be secluded, away from prying eyes. He also won’t talk in case someone overhears him.
The train was busy and there were no double-seats available. I tried to persuade him that it was OK to perch on the end of a six, but he wasn’t having it – even though there wasn’t anyone directly next to him – and he looked on the verge of a catastrophe. Thankfully a kind commuter, luxuriating alone in a double-seat, spotted his pain and swapped with us.
At the ground, he refused to stand up to get a clear view of the pitch, preferring to spend most of the game looking at some fat bloke’s back. He wouldn’t even move slightly forward in his seat so he could watch the action on the big screen whenever he was unsighted.
As for seeing if we could swap seats so he could be on the end of a row – he wouldn’t even contemplate the suggestion.
“Shut up,” he whispered, giving me a firm dig in the ribs. These were our designated seats and therefore that’s where we had to remain.
As each Chelsea goal went in he didn’t join in the cheers, as if he was too scared that people would hear him.
He enjoyed the match though, apparently. And he still wants to go to games. Maybe a cameraman gantry, minus the cameraman, would be the best spot for him – they’d be no fellow spectators to have to deal with.
Then again, the height might be an issue.
Heading for home, he indicated that he was hungry. Knowing there was a pasty place at the railway station, I suggested a sausage roll. He concurred that this was a marvellous idea.
These plans were dashed, howver, when we discovered the pie shop was shut. A rookie error – never suggest something without knowing the facts!
We headed back out of the station towards the town.
“Where are you going?” enquired DS1, slightly panicked.
“Into town to find a sausage roll shop.”
“No! We have to get it in the station.”
“But the sausage roll place in the station is shut.”
“We have to get it there.”
“But it’s closed.”
“We can’t leave the station.”
“Look, there’s nowhere to get a sausage roll,” I said, after we had trawled around all the other food establishments on the concourse. “We can go through the ticket barriers and see if we can get one at a kiosk in there – but if they’re not open we can’t come back through.”
“We can go through the ticket barriers and see if we can get one at a kiosk in there – but if they’re not open we can’t come back through.”
“What do you mean?”
I’m not sure I could have put it any clearer, so I just marched him through the barrier, with my fingers crossed.
Fortunately there was one last kiosk still plying it’s trade – and it had sausage rolls. Not the giant hot ones, but the packet variety. Luckily, the boy begrudgingly accepted this option.
Said sausage roll consumed on the train home, he piped up that he was still starving.
“Why didn’t you buy three sausage rolls?” he enquired.
Erm. Because one is enough. Normally. Maybe.
On the ten-minute walk home, he demanded – approximately every 30 seconds – that I turned around, got back on the train and went back to the pie shop.
“Go back to Reading and buy all the sausage rolls in the shop now!” he instructed.
That will be a “no”.
Needless to say, that didn’t go down too well.
Sometimes it’s like DS1 has a sixth sense. And, no, he doesn’t see dead people… as far as I know. He just has a way of knowing that some kind of change is around the corner (as in, in the near future, not that he can refract light).
I was up in Manchester a couple of weeks back, when a message came in from the wife.
“It’s playing with its box contents – [censored] Lego everywhere!”
The wife was planning to give DS1’s room a makeover, tidying stuff into some semblance of order and trying to get rid of all the unused junk that was littering its interior, so that we could see if there was still carpet in there. And if there was, vacuum it.
“HOW DOES HE KNOW?” she shouted virtually.
“Oh, I assumed you had the box out and was sorting stuff out,” I replied.
“Nope! Just went up there [to start tidying] and he’s done it off his own bat.”
A bit later another message beeped.
“Apparently you are in Manchester in the rain doing nothing except chitty chitty chat chat and drinking beer. And I thought auties weren’t supposed to have insights into other people.”
This was followed by: “DS1: So what are you going to do with this old furniture then? Just dump it?
Me: I’m not sure yet, probably if Dad has his way.
DS1: If Dad has his way he’ll try and sell it for more than it’s worth and then spend it all on Guinness.”
He truly is insightful… when it suits. Especially when it shames me.