No, this blog post is not about questionable sexual escapades – apologies if that’s what you were expecting. It’s also not about a lunatic shooting somebody with a banana. Trust me – given the title, it’s REALLY difficult to find a picture that fits.
When I get in from work, I never quite know what I’m going to find. Sometimes I walk into a happy nuclear-family scene straight from the 1950s – where Mum is cooking dinner, the children are doing their homework, the radio is playing in the kitchen, and the kettle is already on to make a cup of tea. At other times I walk in to find out that one of the children has already eaten, along with her Mum, and gone to rugby practice – and I’ve stopped on the way home to buy food for myself and the rest of the family, because we haven’t had a chance to buy any groceries for two weeks. On those nights I walk into a war-zone in the kitchen, with plates, pots, and pans thrown everywhere, various items of rugby kit thrown on the floor along the hallway, and dirty plates left on the dinner table.
The latter scene occurred earlier this week.
Before cooking the remaining rabble something for dinner, I decided to clear the kitchen first – empty the dishwasher, fill it back up – the usual chores. While doing so, Miss 13 appeared. She has a knack of appearing within minutes of any food plans being made.
“What are we having for dinner?”
“YES!” (she does a fist pump in the middle of the kitchen, still wearing her school uniform)
She begins helping me – loading dishes into the dishwasher alongside me.
“Any drama at school today?”
“Yes – Maisy and Amber aren’t friends any more”
“Oh no!” (feigning concern) “Why is that?”
“Maisy called Amber a bumhole”
Now I’m not sure about you, but when children come out with things like that I have a really difficult job keeping a straight face. I’m really not sure how I did.
“That’s awful! What did Amber do? Did she tell a teacher?”
“She called Maisy Daddy Pig”
At that, I finally burst out laughing, and so did Miss 13. We related the story to our eldest over dinner, and she couldn’t control her laughter either – finally shrieking “but YOU look like Daddy Pig!”, pointing at me with her fork.
I suppose at least I’m not a bumhole…