Following yesterday’s great hopelessness and subsequent resurrection, the collective at Micawber Towers hit the ground running this morning. We were straight in before breakfast signing in to class, even submitting a few photographs of Cerberus’ art. I see a future for him as set designer for Tim Burton. Fancy a traditional fairytale transformed into a grotesque abhorrence, blood weeping from Snow White’s eyes? Our boy has the gift.
In addition we suffered the weight upon our shoulders of having to attend school in person to collect more schoolwork. Boy are we going to have to do some revision.
I have salved my conscience by creating in Cerberus an excellent dominoes player. His talent is unsurpassed and it has the added benefit of being his home school math lesson. The plan for the indeterminate yonks ahead is to develop these skills further; creating a midget expert at poker and darts. By summer he’ll be necking seven pints, masticating pork scratchings’ and smoking fags with me in the shed. After that I expect him to fix the car. He is five years old. I have muttered often to him the plot of Danny, Champion of the World and if he thinks it was without intent then we shall have a slalom learning curve on our oily little paws.
A great disservice was inflicted this week when Mrs M went banzai at the sight of two disobedient nitwits having climbed into the kitchen cupboards and share a pack of biscuits between them. I felt their pain and refer to yesterday’s diary entry for a philosophical insight into this subject area. Nonetheless, Mrs M filled a black bag with all sugar related snacks from our pantry, which was deposited swiftly in the wheelie. Cerberus, Medusa and I performed our well-seasoned watery eyes routine but to no avail. They are now officially banned. The snacks, that is.
This has left me frequently in the position of hiding in the car eating chocolate and guzzling Lucozade.
I am never surprised when studies show men die before women. Of course they do. As I watch Mrs M indoors, undertaking complex yoga postures whilst I perch at the roadside, munching a Cadbury’s Caramel, remind myself to look up the sexy bunny in the old TV adverts, then sloop to the shed to smoke five cigarettes and drink the coffee from yesterday that the rat probably peed in; of course we do.
You may say I sound rather selfish. I’d agree. I only ask that you make a splash at empathy for my sake. When I’m in the house, the equivalent of a hug for Mrs M is a punch in the nuts for me. It’s almost as if Cerberus and Medusa have been watching the old school video I got at Churchfield Primary and identify me with the sweaty sinner who starred. The dialogue went something like this:
“Hello little children. Don’t mind me, I’m just an oddly dressed old man at the school gates. I have lots of puppies in my car. Pop along and I’ll show them to you.”
“OK, kind Mister, lead the way!”
At this point in the narrative the man either boinks them over the head with a cosh or unstaples his Mackintosh for us to discover he is only wearing a vest. Regardless, it had a profound effect. I’ve hated dogs ever since.