One day, you think you are on a path to enlightenment, the next you are scrabbling around in the gutter, feeding off whatever scraps you can find.

DS1’s humour never deserts him, though – although sometimes it can be very cutting, especially when he’s factually correct – there’s just no filter sometimes.

It’s a good job I’m not paranoid about being fat, ugly and gray.

Anyway, we were discussing the wealth of certain footballers and that it would be a great idea if DS1 knuckled down, trained really hard and became a professional, so that he could keep me in the manner I wish to become accustomed to.

Sharing his riches with me wasn’t on his agenda, however.

“I wouldn’t give you anything,” he stated.

“What, nothing?”

“Well, I would buy you a cage.”

“A cage?”

“Yes, so I could lock you in it for the rest of your life.”

That way, I wouldn’t be able to get my hands on his cash. You can’t beat his logic.

Salad days

Two things of note happened last week. First, he came out of school chatting away about how he’d met his new teacher for next year (and by new, I mean new – she is, for want of repeating the word ‘new’, new to the school), who the Teaching Assistants were going to be in his class and how the two Year 6 classes would be mixed up for various subjects. He was full of the joys of spring about it, even answering questions.

Now, this is massive on so many levels: one, he wasn’t perturbed by the fact he didn’t know his new teacher and therefore wouldn’t know what to expect from her; two, he didn’t seem worried about the transition to Year 6 and having to sit SATs; and three, he was chatting to me on the way home from school!

The second thing was perhaps more monumental. It involved the ripping up of his food schedule and the implementation of a new one.

Clearly, it being sports week, they had been given a chat on nutrition – he denied that, obviously.

Gone is bacon every morning – it’s just five days a week now – with toast and cereal making a welcome appearance. Toad in the hole is still there, but it’s been moved to a Thursday (for some reason).

The most startling entry, or rather entries, was salad (on two days) and the rather odd addition for Wednesday, ‘leafs’.

The salad is to include all things salady, except tomatoes, he informed me, and must be served in a bowl with chopsticks. Chopsticks? I didn’t question it, there were more pressing matters.

But what of these leaves, I asked.

“Just (salad) leaves in a bowl with chopsticks.”

“What, with nothing else?”

“No.”

Now while this may be admirable, I feared he may still be hungry afterwards and told him as much.

“That’s alright I’ll have my snacks.”

Oh, yes, there were two extra rows on the schedule: ‘Snacks’ – those consumed around bedtime; and ‘Snacky snacks’, those devoured on coming in from school.

A quick scan revealed that all his processed pork requirements would be well catered for throughout the week, negating the rumbling stomach after a serving of leaves.

In fact, the first serving of leaves failed to get eaten. Who’d have thought? Apparently, he’d been too distracted by what he was doing to eat them. I pointed out that they were still edible; it wasn’t like they had gone cold or anything. But apparently not.

What it did mean was that he would require an extra pork pie for his snack.

Still, it’s the thought that counts.

There’s also the added complication that you can’t deviate from the list. He was still hungry after his non-bowl of leaves, and the second pork pie hadn’t satiated his dietary needs.

“Why don’t you have a sandwich?” I suggested.

“I can’t, it’s not on the list for today,” he rigidited. [Rigidited – the state of being rigid (stop laughing at the back); refusal to deviate (again, stop sniggering)]

Phone home

The week also saw another milestone – he had two friends round to play at the same time. Now, often when there is more than one extra to deal with, the dynamics change. This is particularly difficult for DS1 to deal with at times.

But apart from the high-pitched screaming (from DS1) every time something Xboxy happened in his favour and the regular requests for DS1 to “stop cheating” or to “get out of the way of the TV” while they were playing FIFA, it was all going relatively smoothly. Until it came time for his friends to leave.

“Where’s my phone?” asked Larry as he gathered up his belongings.

Suspicion immediately fell on DS1.

“I don’t know,” he insisted.

He did.

It was located hiding in some earth in the garden.

Larry was understandably a bit upset that his phone was now dirty and informed DS1 of this fact.

“He’s lying – I didn’t put it in the dirt,” DS1 tiraded, before running up the stairs, from where he continued his denial.

We managed to smooth things over and within minutes they were all happily playing again – which was great, except we needed to restart the whole leaving process over.

It was then that it dawned on me – the hiding episode was a ruse to delay his friends leaving. Again, you have to admire his logic, if not the practical application.

Jaw ache

Later, I was putting together his snack, as per the new food schedule, when the kitchen door slammed and DS1 bolted up the stairs, screaming “I hate you!”

I was a bit non-plussed by this development and pointed out to him that I was making his snack, so I wasn’t sure why he would hate me or what I had done to upset him.

Apparently, I had smashed his head into the kitchen worktop. Pretty impressive for someone that was the other side of the room from him and with his back turned at the time.

But he wouldn’t have it – accusing me of lying. He wouldn’t look at me, he wouldn’t talk to me, running away as soon as I approached.

He even complained about me to the wife and repeated the accusation to her.

In further developments, I had, he was adamant, chipped his jawbone.

With the lack of bruising, blood, concussion or any sign of a chip in his bone, the case for the prosecution was considerably weak.

And when the wife told him that there was no way I would hurt him, he stormed off.

“I never want to see either of you again,” he spat, as he disappeared into him room.

Eventually he calmed, and although he still couldn’t look at me, I was allowed, or rather, demanded to read his bedtime story.

But he went to sleep without the situation being fully resolved.

Naturally enough, in the morning it was as if nothing had occurred – his jaw clearly having made a miraculous recovery.

We can only summise this was a reaction to the fact I was going to be away for a couple of days.

Maybe, the chipped jaw incident was his definition of a weekend break.

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