The Last Will and Testament of Small Boy

Small Boy wakes up at 6:30am at Uncle's house.
"WHY?" I wail. "It's halfterm. Can't you at least sleep in at halfterm?"
"It's cos there's no real curtains in this house," Small Boy explains patiently. "Anyway, I don't know why you're complaining, cos I'm the one who's been bored since I woke up."
Uncle does not have a telly, so Small Boy is feeling very hard done by. Normally he would be downstairs with his sister, watching inappropriate music videos and dodgy American comedy by 7:00am.
"I had to lie in bed and just - think," he continues bitterly.
"You could have read your book," I suggest. "Or gone back to sleep."
"Well, I didn't. Anyway, it was actually not a complete waste of time as I wrote my will," he says carelessly.
"You did what?" I exclaim. I haven't had a coffee yet, so it is possible I have not heard him correctly.
"I wrote my will - you know," he says, looking at me thunderously as though I am the stupidest person he's ever come across. "I decided what to leave you all when I die."
"Sounds good," says Daughter. "What do I get?"
"Well, first of all Mum is getting my wardrobe," says Small Boy, ticking off his meagre possessions on his fingers.
"That's nice," I say. "It was my grandpa's anyway, so--"
Small Boy waves his hands impatiently at me to shut up. "And then Dad's getting my bed."
Husband and I exchange looks. "I can't quite see your dad in that bed," I say. "It's a platform bed. And it's a bit small--"
"Mu-um! Shut UP!" says Daughter. "I want to know what I'm getting!"
"You can have my toys," says Small Boy generously. "And William is getting all my books. Well, all the animal ones anyway."
"What about me?" says Uncle.
"Oh YOU," says Small Boy, beaming adoringly at his favourite uncle, "YOU can have all my money. Which is £91 the last time I counted. And if I don't die until next month, you might get £100."
"Wow!" says Uncle. "That's generous."
"So what are you going to leave me in your will?" asks Small Boy.
Uncle looks around his sparsely furnished house and rubs his chin thoughtfully. "You could have all my socks," he suggests.
Small Boy follows Uncle's gaze around the room and agrees that there doesn't seem to be anything else Uncle could leave in his will.

We move on to a discussion about what Uncle should do to his new house in the way of home improvements.
"I've no idea what to do to the house, really," he explains. "So any suggestions would be welcome. I do know I'm going to let loads of weeds grow in the garden, though," he adds with utter seriousness. "I just think there's too much paving and stuff out there. It doesn't look natural."
"You like stuff that's natural, don't you?" Small Boy says with interest. "Is that why you don't have a telly?"
"I don't need one," Uncle says. "I can watch stuff on my laptop if I really want to."
"Like what?" asks Small Boy.
"Like really cool clips of talking animals on YouTube!" says Uncle.
He proceeds to show the kids his favourite clip, which involves some kind of ratty creature who appears to be shouting "Alan!" at the top of his voice. It makes the kids laugh until they cannot breathe.

Our visit sadly draws to a close and we prise the kids away with the promise that they'll see Uncle again very soon.
"It's weird," says Daughter as we pull away from the house, waving and shouting our farewells. "You know how Auntie C is nothing like Mum? Well Uncle is nothing like you either, Dad."
"Oh, in what way?" Husband asks.
"In every way," says Daughter. She lists a few reasons: "Uncle is kind of mostly vegetarian, he cycles everywhere, doesn't get planes, doesn't have much furniture, doesn't have much anything really, doesn't have a telly -" (This would seem to be the thing that's impressed the kids most.) "And he thinks talking animals are hilarious and he's basically way more fun than you. It just doesn't make sense that you're related."
"And that," says Small Boy, decidedly, "is why it is Uncle who is getting my £91 in my will and not you."
Husband looks at me and shrugs. "Oh well," he says. "At least I know my place."
"Yes," I say. "On top of Small Boy's platform bed, penniless and alone by the sounds of it."

Uncle's House is Pretty Cool Too

We arrive at Favourite Uncle's new house with Small Boy in full Documentary Mode. He has decided to film us while we are staying with Uncle so that he can remember "e'vry single thing" that we do. I am hoping I will not wake up in the middle of the night to find him pointing his camera at me. And I am definitely planning on locking the bathroom door at all times.
"Trouble is," he says, as we go into the house, "what I really need is a tripod cos my hands keep getting all shaky while I'm filming. D'you think Uncle has a tripod I could borrow?"
It transpires that Uncle has only this afternoon acquired enough beds for us to sleep in, and his front room is still full of unpacked belongings, so I am hopeful that even if he had a tripod he would not be able to locate it.

The kids are in heaven, mainly because Husband's brother really is their Favourite Uncle and everything that he says and does seems to send them into paroxysms of unbridled joy. Even the fact that he does not have a telly seems to act in his favour. I toy with the idea of getting rid of ours once we get home, only to find myself mentally listing all the programmes that I would end up missing.
Within seconds of entering Uncle's house, Small Boy has found something fun to film: himself. Or more precisely, himself scaling the heights of the staircase as though he were a mountaineer. He delivers his documentary-maker's commentary in a breathy, Attenborough-esque style.
"And here we have the brave climber, struggling to reach the summit of Mount Stair-verest," he gasps, throwing himself forward at full stretch on to the staircase and reaching up to grab the step above him. "He throws his grappling hook up-- Mum, do you see how much better this film would be with a proper tripod?"
"Hmmm," I say. "You could argue it'd be better with a real mountain, too."

We decide to take the kids for a walk to get rid of some of the energy they have bottled up during the journey to Norwich.
"Let's walk into the city," Uncle suggests. "We can go and visit the Coleman's Mustard Shop!" The kids exchange dubious looks. This is not the kind of activity they are used to Uncle proposing. "Cos, guess what? There's a sweet shop next door!" he announces wickedly.
"Yay!" The kids are out the house like a shot. I make a mental note to try this line myself sometime.
Uncle is explaining that the quickest and most picturesque route into town is to go through his garden. I look out of the kitchen window and see a patio area with a gate at the end leading to a steep muddy, wooded bank. It is so steep, in fact, that it turns out the only means of scaling it is on all fours, clinging to branches for support as we go. The kids attack this challenge with enthusiasm and are at the top of the slope in a flash, while I am still untangling myself from brambles and nettles at the bottom.
"Must get a bit of rope to make that easier," says Uncle as he offers me a helping hand to pull me up to the top.
Husband has let his competitive spirit get the better of him and is already at the top with the kids, looking down at me and laughing.
"That was better than Mount Stair-verest!" giggles Small Boy.
I have to admit it is worth the climb. The autumn sun casts long shadows across the heath we are now walking on and the city buildings beneath us are bathed in golden light. We stroll into the centre along the riverside, visit the market to buy a selection of Norfolk cheeses, the mustard shop to buy Norfolk mustard (resisting the chocolate-chip flavoured variety) and the sweet shop to buy sweets from old-fashioned glass jars. Everyone's diverse tastes catered for, we start to make plans for the next 48 hours. The first idea is to hire a boat for a day trip on the Broads the next day. Small Boy is keen to do some bird watching. (And filming, of course.)
Husband decides this gives him the ideal excuse to buy a pair of binoculars, so he, Uncle and Small Boy disappear into a shop while I try to keep Daughter from going into a catatonic state of boredom at the very mention of the words "bird watching". We play The Weird Game which involves trying to spot the weirdest person in the street. The winner gets a quid. It's amazing how competitive you can get over a quid. Daughter wins hands down when she spots a woman wearing some neon pink furry things over her jeans which make her look as though she has neon pink woolly mammoth legs. We find this ludicrously amusing. It is worth losing a quid over, I feel.
Husband, Uncle and Small Boy eventually reemerge looking very pleased with themselves.
"Mission accomplished!" Husband announces, waving a package in the air.
"And I've got a gorilla pod!" Small Boy shouts, bouncing up and down with glee.
"A what?" says Daughter with more disdain than she showed for the neon pink Mammoth Woman.
"A gorilla pod!" repeats Small Boy. "It's a tripod which is ultra-bendy so you can clip it to anything so you can film anything anywhere! I can clip it up on the ceiling in my room at night and film myself sleeping!"
"Just as long as it is only yourself you're planning on filming at night," I say sternly.
"Yeah, 'course," says Small Boy. But he is not listening. I watch as he bends the gorilla pod around Uncle's wrist, giggling like a maniac.
I decide I'm going to lock the bedroom door as well as the bathroom now. Just in case.

Drink, Drugs and . . . Turnips?

We are on the second leg of our halfterm holiday in Norfolk. Husband's brother recently moved to Norwich which is only an hour from my sister's house, so this second car journey was supposed to be less painful than the first. Husband and I switch on the radio and relax into the gentle humour of Radio 4's "The News Quiz" while Daughter sings softly to something on her iPod and Small Boy kills things on my phone.
We have been driving all of five minutes before Daughter leans forward and pipes up:
"When were you last drunk, Mum?"
I know why she is asking me this. Before we left to go to Auntie C's we made the mistake of allowing the kids to watch an episode of "Blackadder" with us. We ill-advisedly let them choose the episode where Blackadder challenges Lord Melchit to a drinking competition. We had forgotten quite how unsuitable most of the content of that particular episode is for young children. I had thought at the time that there would be repercussions from the scene where Baldrick announces he has "a thingie shaped like a turnip", but it transpires that Daughter has been more impressed by the drunken loutishness.
"I, er - oh, it's been ages," I lie.
"What about you, Dad?" she persists.
Husband glances at me with a wry expression. "Years and years," he lies as well.
"So what does it feel like, being drunk?" Small Boy asks.
"Lovely at first," I say, seeing no point in lying about this. After all, what would be the point in pretending that getting drunk was horrible? The kids would only ask why people bother to do it if it's not a nice thing to do.
Husband frowns at me and I realise with panic that this is a topic on which we should probably have agreed our party line first.
"Only at first," he says, with emphasis. "It quickly makes you feel terrible. And you lose control of yourself very fast," he adds, raising his eyebrows at me, as though in warning.
Oh no, I think, my throat going dry. He's going to tell an awful story about me doing something stupid to illustrate the evils of drink.
Then I remember that, at one time in his dim and distant youth, after consuming a few pints, Husband was famous for announcing to a crowded room that he was a sugar cube. I snigger but decide to keep that story in reserve for future use.
"Anyway, you know what Ollie says," exclaims Small Boy.
"No," says Husband warily. "What does Ollie say?"
"Why drink and drive when you can take drugs and FLY!" Small Boy cries, waving his arms around to illustrate the wisdom of his friend's advice.
Daughter roars with laughter and Husband shakes with suppressed giggles.
The youth of today, I think despairingly. In my day we would have been much more interested in jokes about thingies shaped like turnips.

It's Much More Fun at Auntie's House

The kids love visiting my sister's. She lives in a beautiful brick and flint house near the sea on the north coast of Norfolk with breathtaking views across fields alive with wild-eyed hares and flighty pheasants. Wide sweeping skies capture the imagination with daily cinematic displays of sunsets and sun rises, awe-inspiring cloud formations and the heart-stopping aerial acrobatics of buzzards, kestrels and hawks.
"I love staying at Auntie C's," says Daughter wistfully. "She's just like you, except she's more fun. And definitely more relaxed," she adds, watching her cousins. My one-year-old niece is nibbling on a piece of coloured chalk and painting a chair with yoghurt while my five-year-old nephew snuggles up in the dog basket with the cat.
"Yeah, and she does better breakfasts," says Small Boy, snorting a line of chocolate croissants.
Even our dog is critical of me this morning. She is longingly eyeing her canine cousins' position of privilege on the sofa and shooting me reproachful glances which clearly convey the message, "You'd never let me do that at home."

We have a happy time on Blakeney Point later in the day, spotting curlews and oyster catchers, and eating ice cream before lunch.
"You'd never let us do this at home!" says Daughter, gleefully cramming in a strawberry Cornetto before I can comment.
The three dogs run riot, tails whirling around like helicopter blades. Our dog cannot believe her luck. She is not used to such open spaces. She is also not used to so much black mud. My sister's two Labs charge into a particularly boggy patch and luxuriate in an extravagant all-over-body roll, flicking ribbons of thick gloopy muck up into the air in great showers, their eyes closed in bliss.
Our dog makes the mistake of stopping and checking with me before following her cousins. "NO!" I yell. The image of an onward journey incarcerated with a stinking mud-caked hound has already formed in my mind. I grab her collar and keep her back.
The dog sighs loudly as she watches them. "You'd never let me do that anywhere."

We finish off the morning with a meal in a local pub called The Pigs. True to its name, the menu contains all things porky and the house speciality is a platter called "Everything But the Oink". Husband is very keen on ordering this. I am curious, so we go for it.
The kids, true to form, resolutely turn their backs on anything untried and untested, and choose fish and chips.
The meal arrives and our platter is just as described.
"Wow! Look at this," says Husband, eyes wide. "It really is everything but the oink."
"What is all that stuff?" asks Daughter, wrinkling up her nose in disgust. "It doesn't look like normal food."
Husband points to the various offerings before him. "Black pudding, sausages, rillettes, pork scratchings, crackling, ham, roast pork," he says, licking his lips.
"Where's the vegetables?" asks Small Boy.
There is no vegetable in sight, not even as decoration.
"Doesn't look as though we get any," I say.
Small Boy groans. "That's not faaaaiiiirrrr!" he wails. "We've got this horrible cabbagey stuff." He pokes at a mound of, to me, very tempting-looking curly kale.
Husband is deaf to Small Boy's complaints, engaged as he is in a full-scale battle with a pile of pork scratchings.
"Mmmm," he says, his eyes closed in an expression of bliss close to that of the dogs' earlier when they were rolling in mud. "This. Is. Delicious."
"Don't tell me," I say, as I watch him tuck in with relish. "I'd never let you do this at home."

Are We Nearly There Yet?

It is halfterm. Husband has a rare two days off so we are determined to Make The Most Of It and see how far along the motorway we can get in the untrusty Volvo before one of its wheels falls off, or the gearbox explodes, or whatever it was that prevented us from getting to Longleat Center Parcs last October halfterm. We are aiming to get to Norfolk to see my sister and Husband's brother. (I should clarify that they do not live together. That would just be too weird.)
Small Boy is not good at long car journeys. He gets itchy the minute we leave the village. We are already on our fifth round of Twenty Questions before we have joined the motorway. It is a tedious enough game at the best of times, but Small Boy manages to take the tedium to new heights. This is mainly because there is never any point in asking the question, "Animal, vegetable or mineral?" as the category he chooses is always "Animal". And the animal he chooses is always some obscure variety of creature, usually only found on Madagascar.
We all pretend to find it fascinating for about fifteen seconds, but the game quickly descends into a shouting match along the lines of, "Oh for heaven's sake who on earth knows what a lesser-toothed mongat weasel looks like anyway?" (The answer to that complaint is often, "David Attenborough.")
Small Boy excels himself this morning, however: "Did you know that we are all related to dung beetles," he announces emphatically, cutting across an argument about it being against the rules to choose an animal no one has ever heard of. "We are all related to every animal, actually."
"Oh yeah?" says Daughter. "Who told you that?"
"Charles Darwin," says Small Boy airily. "It was all his idea."
"How about we stop playing Twenty Questions?" I suggest.
"How about no?" says Small Boy.
"Are we on the M25 yet?" asks Daughter. "Only I hate the M25."
This seems rather a forceful opinion to have, seeing as she does not yet drive and does not even travel on the M25 more than about twice a year.
"Why's that?" I ask.
"Well, you know - it's like that poem by Paul Cookson," chips in Small Boy. "You're always . . . " he takes a deep breath and chants: " 'Stuck behind the man, stuck behind the man, stuck behind the man in the caravan' on the M25, aren't you?"
Daughter and Small Boy immediately launch into a long and loud rendition of the poem - or rather the refrain.
"STUCK BEHIND THE MAN, STUCK BEHIND THE MAN, STUCK BEHIND THE MAN IN THE CA-RA-VAN!"
"Oh look, there's Windsor Castle!" Husband shouts in desperation.
"Is that where the Queen and Dead Prince Philip went to avoid the Royal Wedding?" asks Small Boy.
"He's not dead," says Daughter witheringly. "He only looks it."
"That's not very kind," I say.
"Never mind," says Small Boy. "Can I have a Penguin biscuit?"
I rummage around in my handbag which has morphed into a receptacle for anything that did not make it into the main luggage for the weekend. I am just about to panic as all I can find are dog biscuits, a tic-remover, a packet of earplugs and three hairbrushes, when a glimpse of shiny paper reassures me that there are snacks somewhere in the bottom of the melee.
"Here you are." I pass a packet of Penguins into the back.
"Oh, look - jokes!" Small Boy cries with glee. "What language do penguins speak? . . . Finnish! Harahahahhaaaarrrrhaaa!" He gurgles hysterically while the rest of us exchange blank looks.
"Why is that funny?" asks Daughter.
Small Boy stops laughing and looks up from the biscuit wrapper like a startled tortoise. "Dunno. I mean, I get the 'Fin' bit, but what about the 'nish'? But hey, look at this!" he cries, pointing at the wrapper again. "In the ingredients, it says it contains 'glutton'! Er, what is glutton?"
Husband is shaking his head wearily.
I slouch back in my seat and stare forlornly out of the window while considering putting in the earplugs.
"Are we nearly there yet?" I ask.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Small Boy is away on a rugby tour.
I never thought I would see all of those words together in the same sentence. Small Boy does not believe in rugby. He is of the opinion that if he wanted to get his nose broken he would do it in a much more exciting way, such as climbing a tree to inspect his bat boxes before falling face down to the ground whilst doing an impression of a bat.
Most of the time he does a great job of avoiding doing any actual rugby by running very fast up and down on the wing and waving his arms about. This way the teacher cannot accuse him of not trying, while he can use the time to count rabbits, pretend to be a buzzard, or daydream about owning a tortoise.
I am a little anxious as I wave him off and tell him I will miss him.
He puts on his man-of-the-world expression and says wearily, "It's too late for regrets now, Mum."
Daughter snorts. "I won't miss you," she says with feeling.

I miss Small Boy for lots of reasons, obviously, but the main reason is that I find myself now in sole charge of the chickens. This is an onerous task. I end up doing little or no work on day one, as every time I walk past the window and look out at the chicken run, I am convinced that I cannot see Titch, the Lavender Pekin. I spend more time checking on her than doing anything else as I cannot bear the thought of having to announce her demise on Small Boy's return.
However, it's not just the care of the chickens that has fallen to me during Small Boy's absence. The other animals usually fall under his self-imposed jurisdiction, too - before school, that is. Small Boy is the first to get up and always immediately runs down to let out the dog, check on the chooks and feed the cats. He also lays the table for breakfast and then wolfs down his food so that he can spend the next fifteen minutes yelling at the rest of us to "Get a move on, or I'll be late for my morning meeting!"
Since going into Year 6, Small Boy seems to have an alarming amount of morning meetings. More even than Husband, it would seem. I am beginning to wonder if he is running a small business on the side. I can only hope it's not illegal.
So the end result of Small Boy going away is not, as I had hoped, that getting ready for school is made easier by only having one child to chivvy. On the contrary, due to the animal-related tasks that now fall to me; the fact that Daughter thinks "laying the table" means "getting myself a piece of toast and ignoring everyone else" and the fact that no one is shouting at me to hurry up, I have been late out of the door every day this week.
Even Daughter has begun to miss her brother. "At the beginning of the week I thought it might be quite cool to be an only child," she says, wistfully. "But now I think I could do it for a few days, and then I'd get bored."
I think that's the closest we'll get to hearing Daughter admitting any affection for her younger sibling. Not that he'll care much. The first members of the family to get any attention from him on his return tonight will be the chickens, I can be sure of that.

Furry Hot Water Bottles

We manage to get through the rest of the first day of the Aged Ps' visit with no unforeseen mishaps. Husband and I escape for the evening to have dinner with friends. When we return at 11 o'clock (Party Animals R Us) the house is cloaked in darkness, there is a pile of hot water bottles on the kitchen table and the rest of the kitchen looks as though a team of wannabe Masterchefs have had a competition to see who can use the most pots and pans. My phone, having been in a black spot all evening, suddenly pings me a text from Daughter: "Where r the ht warter botle lids? I'm freeeeeezin."


The next morning, a Sunday, I shoot out of bed at 8.30am because I have been given my marching orders for the day: a roast lunch is to be served on the dot of midday so that we can get Daughter to another match in the afternoon at a school 45 minutes' drive away. Normally we would eat in the evening on such a day, but when I suggested this to Mother I was told this "would not do" as the Aged Ps needed to leave early. The promise of an early departure has galvanised me into action (usually I am pushing them out of the door with a rictus grin on my face late at night at the end of such a weekend), so I am chopping and peeling and whisking and basting away before Husband has woken.
"Did you have a nice evening?" Mother asks.
"Yes, thanks," I say. "It was lovely--"
"Oh good," Mother cuts in. "Only we didn't. We had to watch The X Factor and then some rubbish your father likes called Merlin. I read the paper. Or rather that rag of a thing you call a paper-- Grandpa! You aren't eating butter are you?" she shouts at Dad. Dad is strictly "off butter" since having his cholesterol measured. Small Boy and he are in cahoots over this prohibition: Small Boy has taken on the role of "butter pusher" and has been rather good at remaining unobserved. Until now.
"That's not butter," says Small Boy, loyally. "S'just a bit of grease."
"IT'S BUTTER!" Mother shouts, lunging at the offending piece of toast.
I turn on the radio and start humming to myself while I lay into a pile of carrots with a level of psychotic passion normally the preserve of violent offenders.
Husband seems to be having a very long lie-in, I think, as everyone, even Daughter, finally finishes their breakfast and get dressed.
Husband appears bleary-eyed an hour or so later. "I had a dreadful night," he says. "Psycho Cat jumped on me at 2am and then Jet came in and purred in my face at 3am."
I yell to Small Boy and Daughter: "Why didn't you put the cats out? You know they go out at night."
Mother steps in with a saccharine grandmotherly smile on her face. "Well your poor children were freezing last night (this really is such a cold house) and we couldn't find the hot water bottle lids, so we let them have a cat each instead."
"The lids were inside the bottle covers," I say. "You only had to look."
"Never mind, a cat does just as well," Mother says breezily.
I make a mental note to slip Psycho Cat into her bag before she leaves. The two of them should get along just fine, I think, as I return to vigorously chopping apples and muttering under my breath.
Only eight more hours to go . . .

Dread and Breakfast

It is eight thirty on a Saturday morning. The Aged Ps arrived late last night with the announcement that they were "exhausted" after spending the day in Cambridge voting for the new Chancellor of the University, so they would like a lie-in.
I would have liked a lie-in too, but am feeling very sorry for myself as I have had to take Daughter into school early yet again. I told the Ageds this before we went to bed, but that doesn't guarantee they'll have remembered it by the time they wake up.
I console myself on my return with the thought that no one else will be up yet, so I will have the house to myself. I walk up the garden path savouring the idea of my first cup of coffee of the day, but as I approach the kitchen, I spy figures through the window, and my heart sinks. The Aged Ps are already up and about, pacing like Psycho Cat at feeding time.
"Hello," I say. "Hope you slept well?"
"Not really," says Mother.
"Oh dear," I reply, more from dread at what this will mean for the day's mood than for any other reason.
"Where's my granddaughter?" she snaps. "Lounging in bed, I suppose. Typical teenager."
"Actually, no. She's at school," I begin, digging my nails deep into my arm to prevent myself from adding "as I told you last night."
"At school? On a Saturday? Oh well, you never tell me anything," says Mother.
I take a deep breath. "I'm going to have a shower. Help yourself to coffee."
Dad smiles and thanks me and goes back to checking the internet on his phone to see who has been voted Chancellor. Another thing for me to worry about: if Brian Blessed gets the vote Mother will hyerpventilate with anger. I shall have to run away from my own house.
I back away hastily. "And help yourself to anything else you fancy," I say on my way up the stairs.
"Oh!" Mother calls up after me. "We have to forage for our breakfast, do we?"
I grit my teeth and hurry to the peace and solitude of the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes and one hot shower later I come back down feeling slightly fortified to find the Aged Ps are still pacing.
"We can't work the kettle," says Mother.
I lift it up and shake it. "That's because you haven't put any water in it," I explain.
"Oh well," says Mother. "How was I meant to know?"
I bite back any number of responses, all of which would probably start up another World War, and set about making breakfast.
Small Boy is supposed to be dressed and ready by now. He has to go into school as well. There is to be a celebration of the building being 21 years on its present site, and there is to be a grand opening by the Mayor of some smart new ICT and DT facilities. Small Boy has a part to play in this which is mainly why the Aged Ps have come to stay, as Mother "never sees her grandchildren do anything". This is a chance to rectify yet another appalling oversight of mine.
Small Boy is nowhere near dressed. He is watching TV in his pyjamas, tucked up with The Cats under my best woollen throw. He is in his element (as are The Cats). A visit from the Aged Ps means he can get away with watching as much TV as he likes, as there is always so much bickering going on, no one notices. He does however resurface once he smells toast.
"You're not dressed!" I shout, unfairly taking out my frustration on him. "We've got to be back in school for the opening ceremony thing in half an hour!"
Small Boy rolls his eyes and ignores me while inhaling half a packet of chocolate chip brioches which his grandmother has bought him with the usual total disregard for my attitudes towards such food.
Just as I am contemplating removing the packet of brioches from his sweaty little hands, the dog sets up a riotous barking. This is our signal for the arrival of the newspaper. Oh no, I groan inwardly. I should have stopped at the shop to buy the Torygraph. Mother will spit when she sees the Guardian. I nip out to intercept the paperboy and attempt to smuggle the offending publication into the house without being seen.
Mother has preempted me and jumps out from behind the door.
"No!" she shouts, swiping the paper out of my hand. "Not this rag! And look! He's resigned! Liam Fox has resigned! Oh, I bet the left-wing liberal wets just LOVE that. If it wasn't for papers like this--"
"Look at the time!" I exclaim. "We're going to be late if we don't get a move on."
In the past I have noticed that it is best to treat the Aged Ps like toddlers: feed them regularly, let them sleep regularly and if all else fails, use distraction.
Sadly, the distraction technique doesn't seem to be working today. Even though Mother would normally rather be forced to say "I love Tony Blair" than be late for something, today she is ignoring me. She is still rummaging through the newspaper, pointing and snarling and leaving the thing completely unreadable for anyone else who might have shown a genuine interest in its contents. Finally she thrusts a supplement at me and announces triumphantly, "You should read this."
It is entitled "How to Write Fiction."
"Thanks," I manage, although I am close to choking, "but I kind of already know how to do that. It's my - er - job."
"You have a job?" Mother barks with astonishment. "Well, of course, you never tell me anything."

Look Out! The Aged Ps Are Coming...

The Aged Ps are coming to stay for the weekend. Mother has been insisting that she "never" sees her grandchildren. This is clearly my fault, even though the Aged Ps have been on holiday twice since we ourselves returned from a summer break, and have also been in the eye of a tornado of social commitments which have excluded a visit either from or to us.
I have gritted my teeth during a number of phone calls where I have invited them to stay only to hear that "we can't come then because we're going to a talk on Pompeii/Herculaneum/Stabiae" or indeed any other town devastated by a volcano. Mother likes a disaster, especially one involving the Romans.
"You're always so busy," she complains, as I go through the calendar, crossing off the weekends they cannot make. "All I can say is, we didn't have a social life when we were your age."
I think back to the many Saturday nights spent on my grandmother's sofa watching the Generation Game while the then not-so-Aged-Ps went off to Vicars and Tarts parties, Toga parties, and any manner of other dubious fancy dress "dos" in the name of charity, organised by the local branch of the Round Table.
She's right, I think, you can hardly class that as a social life. More like institutionalised torture.
Finally I can bear the Diary Conversations no longer and so have agreed to shoe-horn the Ageds into one of the busiest weekends of the term.
I decide to call a couple of days before their arrival to warn them of the military timetable we are expected to adhere to on Saturday and Sunday in the hope that this might preempt a lot of moaning and groaning about how much we all "rush around these days".
Dad answers the phone, cheery as always. "Hello, love!" he trills. "Looking forward to seeing you this weekend!"
"Yes," I say. "That's what I'm ringing about, actually. Just thought I'd let you know our plans."
There is a second's silence in response to this and I curse myself. I should have known I would lose him at the P-word.
"I-I'll, er, just get your mum," he says, panic rising in his voice.
Some minutes later Mother's voice can be heard, puffing and panting and muttering ominously.
"Oh, it's you," she says. "I've had a terrible time recently." She pauses.
I say nothing.
"I had a sore on my foot so your father made me go to the doctor's!" she exclaims.
"Oh dear," I manage, teeth already forming into Gritted Mode.
"Yes. And do you know what the doctor said? Athlete's Foot!" Mother announces, appalled. From the tone of her delivery, she was evidently hoping for a much more dramatic diagnosis.
"And another thing," she says. "I hear you've been asked to be a godmother again. You didn't tell me."
I did actually, but what the hell.
"Mmmm," I say. My teeth are clamped so tightly together, I can't utter much more than an assenting grunt.
"Well," says Mother. How she can coat one word in so much disapproval is nothing sort of a marvel. "Well. As you know, I think godparents are a waste of time. That's why you don't have any."
"I do!" I finally open my mouth loud enough to protest.
"Yes, but your godfather's your uncle and your godmother's your grandmother, and she's dead."
This, sadly, is true.
I decide to change the topic of conversation. "I'm ringing to let you know what we're up to this weekend," I say. "Saturday we have to take Daughter to a match at 8.30, then Small Boy has to be in school at 10.00 to do the speech I told you about, then later on Husband and I are going out to dinner, as you know, because you kindly agreed to babysit."
"No I didn't," says Mother. She sighs heavily. "Oh well, I suppose we should be grateful that you can fit us into your busy schedule. I have to say, your father and I did not have a social life when we were your age."
"No," I say. I manage to set my teeth back into Grit Mode just in time to stop myself from mentioning my memory of the Vicars and Tarts parties.
It's not an image I really want to hold on to, in any case.

Chicken Run

We are sitting around the kitchen table, arguing about homework and whether courgettes are an acceptable vegetable to serve to children.
"Personally, I think it is child cruelty, forcing us to eat those things," says Small Boy disgustedly, poking his meal with a fork.
"Why does Dad grow them? They're rank!" exclaims Daughter. "You should feed them to the chickens instead."
"The chickens!" shouts Small Boy, leaping from the table, sending knives, forks and discarded rondels of green vegetable cascading down on to the floor.
The dog immediately wakes from her deep sleep and pounces on the food to wolf it down, only to wrinkle her nose in disgust before spitting everything back out again.
"See?" says Daughter triumphantly. "Even she won't eat them." [Dramatic pause] "And she eats human sick."
"Thank you," I say pointedly. "And - er - where you do think you're going?" I call after Small Boy, who is hurriedly cramming his feet into his wellies, a look of consternation on his pink little face.
"Look outside! It's getting dark! The chickens are out!" With these three sentences thrown at me in disdain, he has disappeared.
Daughter and I sit in silence contemplating the courgettes.
Small Boy is back in under a minute, out of breath and crying, "She's gone! Titch has gone!"

Titch, the Lavender Pekin, has had her beady little eyes set on adventure since the day she came to live with us. I am convinced that her cute fluffy exterior is simply a cover for what is in fact an extremely wily character. She certainly is proof, if needed, that it is often the more surprising things in life that come in small packages. The other night I was on the phone when I noticed a strange grey shape perched on top of the bird feeder. I approached the window cautiously and found myself eye to eye with the Pekin who was roosting precariously and clearly very much out of her comfort zone, two metres off the ground. She was even further from her comfort zone once I had screeched and dropped the phone, causing her to fall off her perch in fright.

Small Boy is beside himself at this latest catastrophe.
"You have to help me look for Titch!" he urges, hurtling back out into the dusk.
Daughter's normal reaction to all chicken-related conversation is to roll her eyes heavenward and withdraw to another room to text about the weirdness of her family to anyone who will take note. But she is no bird-brain and knows a good opportunity when she sees it. She pushes her courgettes away and rushes out after Small Boy to help search for the errant chook.
We run around the garden, searching under bushes and in trees, but all we find are trails of feathers down the far end of the garden near the hole in the ground which we have long suspected is a fox's den.
After a tearful bathtime, during which we are subjected to a "This is Your Life"-style slideshow of Titch's Best Moments on Small Boy's video camera, we agree that we have Learnt A Lesson and will not be leaving the chicken run open in the evening again.

At dawn I hear Small Boy clatter out to the chicken run to dutifully tend to his two remaining chooks. I sadly plod to the bathroom to begin the mammoth task of sticking my face on (a task made monumental by lack of sleep and chicken-related anxiety attacks), and am approaching completion when a little voice says, "Look who I've found!"
Small Boy is standing in the doorway, a tiny, grey, shivering bird clutched in his grubby hands, a bright beaming smile on his face. "Titch! She was hiding all the time!"
We are all delighted and cluster round the chicken as though she is a sacred thing. "She must have had a guardian angel looking after her," I gush dramatically.
"Yeah, a Kung Fu chicken guardian angel who kept the fox away with karate chops!" enthuses Small Boy, waving the bird dangerously around his head.
Knowing a chicken's propensity for pooing at regular intervals, I swiftly remove boy and bird from the cream-carpeted room and usher them downstairs.
Psycho Cat is already in the kitchen, stalking along the work tops. She is very unamused: the morning's excitement has meant that she has had to wait all of ten minutes for her breakfast to be served. She perks up on seeing Titch in Small Boy's arms though, and the look on her face says all too plainly what is going through her fiendish feline brain: "At last, some real food for a change."
"Quick, take Titch outside and shut her in the run," I say urgently, pouncing on the cat and holding her in a head lock.
I somehow think it would take more than an innate feathery feistiness, or indeed a Kung Fu chicken guardian angel, to protect the poor Pekin from a Whiskas-deprived Psycho Cat.
In any case, I'm not taking chances.

Quantitative Easing, or How To Get What You Really Want

Small Boy is sitting in the armchair in the kitchen reading Country Smallholdings magazine and humming the tune to "Crazy In Love" by Beyonce while tapping his foot vigorously to the beat.
I choose to ignore the choice of song, but am curious as to where he has got the magazine from. My son has always been an afficionado of the RSPB magazine and BBC Wildlife, but this is the first time Country Smallholdings has made an appearance in our house. I am a little worried to see he is flicking through articles about keeping pygmy goats. At least he has given up pestering me for terrapins, which was last week's craze.
"Where did you get that magazine from?" I ask casually.
"William," he answers, just as casually.
"Oh?"
I feel a stab of panic. William is much loved in our house and is Small Boy's best friend, but that does not lessen the murmurings of disquiet that accompany the mention of his name, paired as it usually is with some new hare-brained scheme to increase the animal population in our house. William's family have a smallholding which is, quite simply, the envy of Small Boy. It is an envy which consumes him. William has daily access to pigs, cows, ponies, chickens, quail, a Harris hawk, a cat and a dog. William has thus become the benchmark by which Small Boy measures our own animal husbandry, which of course pales in comparison.
"You know this Quality Veezin' they keep going on about," Small Boy says suddenly, breaking into my anxious thoughts.
My mind does a couple of backflips as it attempts to translate.
"Oh, you mean 'quantitative easing'?" I say, as the light dawns.
"That's the one," says Small Boy. "It's very interesting how the banks are going to be printing loads of new money notes, but what I want to know is--"
"Hang on!" I interrupt. "That's not quite what's happening."
"Yes it is," Small Boy contradicts me indignantly. "You said that the bank is going to Create More Money to Solve The Crisis. You said!" he protests. "And if they are going to do that, then I want to know if I can get a rise in my pocket money."
"No," I say.
"But! What! Hey! But that's not faaaaiiiiiir!" Small Boy wails. "If you are getting more money then why shouldn't I?"
"I am not getting more money! No one is. You see--" I begin.
"Well, what on earth is the point of printing more if no one is going to get any then?" says Small Boy with disgust.
"It's not as though you need any more, is it love?" I point out. "The last time you counted up your pocket money you seemed to be doing pretty well."
"But I don't have enough to buy what I really want, though!" he protests, waving the magazine at me ominously.
I peer anxiously over his shoulder at the pictures. "What exactly have you got your eye on?" I ask.
"Well, I think that if I just had another say, hundred pounds or so," he says carelessly, "I could afford one of these coops." He points to a luxury two-storey chicken house.
"I quite fancy that myself," I said, impressed. "I could use it as an office."
"Don't be stupid," he berates me with a withering look, "it's for Marans, obviously. 'Cept," he adds thoughtfully, "I don't really want Marans cos they're too big. But a chicken house like this one would fit hundreds of Pekins!" he brightens.
"No," I say firmly. "No more chickens."
I feel the three hens are living on borrowed time as it is. I had to prise Psycho Cat away from the edge of the run yesterday, as she was licking her lips and getting perilously close.
"All right then - what about an incubator?" Small Boy is not giving up easily tonight. "William says it's really easy to hatch your own eggs and then you get really really cute fluffy chicks!" he puts on his best pleading, baby voice in an attempt to appeal to my softer side.
"NO!" I am getting annoyed now. "I am not letting you hatch chicks and you know very well why not!"
"Is it because you don't want a cockerel?" Small Boy says. He is getting irritated now. "Well, all I can say is, you are not a very animal-minded person. Not like William's parents."
"Huh!" I bridle at this. I am the one who picks up the dead rodents The Cats bring home, I am the one who picks up the dog's poo, walks her, bathes her, takes her to the vet . . . But he has heard this all before and is not going to let me get a word in.
"Anyway," he says, defiantly. "It doesn't matter if we hatch a cockerel. There's an easy way to deal with it. William says."
"I should have known," I sigh. "I suppose William will give a good home to any cockerel we don't want, is that it?"
"No," says Small Boy simply. "But his dad will ring its neck for us."
There's no real answer to that, is there?

What Have the Romans Ever Done for Us?

The Aged Ps are back from their latest jaunt.

“We got an early flight back, which was nice,” says Mother.

“Oh, didn’t you enjoy the holiday then?” I ask.

“Oh yes, but it’s always nice to get home,” replies the woman who two weeks ago was telling me how it is always nice to get away.

“So did you have a good time or not?” I ask. I am cradling the phone uncomfortably between my left ear and my shoulder while attacking the Ironing Pile, which has been threatening to attack me for the past few days as it grew in size and leered ominously at me from the laundry basket.

I realise too late that this position is not the best to be caught in now that I have just effectively asked for a recap of the history of Ancient Grece.

“Well,” says Mother, taking a deep breath. “I have to say, I never thought much of the Greeks. Give me the Romans any day. We went to Actium – you know, where Octavian finished off Anthony and Cleopatra? Although to be precise the battle was fought at Epirus vetus.”

“Hmmm,” I make a vague assenting noise, so that I don’t have to betray my woeful lack of knowledge of all things classical, which is one of the many cardinal sins I am charged with in our family. Although I did get Latin O Level, it didn’t count according to the Ageds, as I had been taught the Cambridge Latin Course, which is apparently for idiots.

“Well, Octavian – or should I say Augustus Caesar as he later became known – he knew how to deal with the Greeks,” Mother says, with considerable relish. “He trounced the lot of ’em at the Battle of Actium, gained control of Mare Nostrum [I have a vague idea she’s talking about the Mediterranean] and thus consolidated his power over every Roman institution.”

“Really?” I have to put the iron down. I am in danger of getting a locked shoulder. Or burning myself. I feel as though I’m back at school again, so I may as well sit down and start taking notes in case I’m tested later.

“Yup. The Roman Republic became an Empire after that. Mirabilis! No wonder the Greeks have cocked up their economy. Bring back the Romans, that’s what I say! Vivat Romani!”

I stop myself in time from asking facetiously, “What have the Romans ever done for us?” For once I’m sorry Dad isn’t on the other phone. We could have had a father-daughter Monty Python moment and annoyed Mother, which is always fun.

“So,” she says at last, realising that I am not talking. “How have you been?”
“Oh, OK,” I say. “Had a bit of a cold.”

“Oh, yes, so did we. Terrible scratchy throat and cough.” Mother coughs loudly and phlegmily into the phone to illustrate the point. “But it was lovely to get away. Even if the Greeks are so rubbish at organisation. Did you know they’re going on strike again—?”
“Did Dad enjoy himself?” I interrupt hastily.

“Oh, you know your father. He’s always happy. He met a soulmate actually. A man who also went to Trinity and has the same idiotic sense of humour as your father. Must be something in the water in that college. They spent the whole holiday quoting bits of poetry and bloody Monty Python and silly jokes to one another in Greek and Latin. Honestly.”

I smile to myself. I can picture the scene perfectly: Mother railing against the Greeks and loudly extolling the Romans, while Dad and his new-found friend stand shoulder to shoulder looking out across the Ionian Sea, grinning like a pair of loonies and chirping: “What have the Romans ever done for us?”

Pirates Ahoy!

Small Boy stretches and yawns. "I think I had a dream last night that I was a pirate," he says.
"You think you did?" I ask.
"Yes. Well, I must've done, cos when I woke up, my duvet was twisted round the wrong way."
"Still not following," I murmur as I dole out slices of toast and cups of hot chocolate.
"Well, see, pirates steer their ships backwards, don't they? So that must be why my duvet was round the wrong way. S'obvious - I must've twisted it round thinking that I was steering the ship."
Daughter rolls her eyes, flicks her hair and puts her hands on her hips. "You utter numpty!" she cries. "Pirates do not steer backwards! If they did, they wouldn't be able to see where they were going. Unless they had wing mirrors - hey, that would be so cool! Huge great wing mirrors on the sides of the ship!"
Small Boy is getting huffy. "Well, it's not like there's anything for the pirates to bash into on the sea, so it doesn't matter if they can't see where they are going."
I swear as I trip over Psycho Cat who is having an argument with a Daddy-Long-Legs and has got the dog over-excited into the bargain.
Daughter is now explaining in her I'm-trying-to-be-patient-but-you-are-all-losers voice that pirates have "steering wheel thingies" and that they don't all row backwards in a line "like in those lame boats Mum likes".
Of course, this is all my fault. I should have known. This latest of Small Boy's delusions is clearly down to my yelling at the television during the Boat Race. But it turns out, this is the least of my worries.
"Anyway, it doesn't matter which way they steer," he announces, with a defiant toss of his head. "What I was going to say is, if I ever get the chance to be a pirate, I will definitely be a Traditional one."
"A Traditional one?" Husband repeats in alarm, looking up from his BlackBerry.
If he was worried when his son announced his intention to wear tights on his head and do an impression of Kate Winslet in Titanic, he is going to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown once he hears Small Boy's latest sartorial plans. I can feel it in my bones, me hearties. I hold my breath and wait for the accusations to fly: "You were the one who let him dress up as Cinderella when he was two!" (In my defence, he did look cute.)
"Yes, a Traditional one - you know, one which dresses properly, not one of these modern ones," Small Boy says with scorn.
"Oh yeah? So what will you wear?" Daughter asks, pursing her lips. She looks at me as if to say, "He will have NO IDEA what to wear."
It turns out she is wrong.
Small Boy beams. "Well," he says, holding up a hand to begin counting off on his fingers, "for a start I will wear a wooden leg. Then I will wear a hook on my arm. I will have a proper captain's hat, a parrot on my shoulder and a stripy T-shirt and I'll have a big Traditional Crew."
"A what?" we chorus.
"You know - a big Traditional Crew of men." He beams disconcertingly. "And I'll have a nice skull 'n' crossbones too. And swords and pistols hanging from my belt. Oh! And I'll steal sugar."
"You'll steal sugar," Husband repeats. He is beginning to sound like the imaginary parrot on Small Boy's shoulder.
"Yeah, I'm not going to steal all that boring stuff that modern pirates do. And I'm not going to kidnap anyone. I just want the sugar."
"Why?" I ask. I'm not really expecting an adequate answer, but I do feel the question needs to be asked.
"S'obvious," says Small Boy, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "In olden day times sugar was the most expensive thing, so that's why the Traditional Pirates stole it. And I like eating sugar cubes, so . . . " He spreads his hands and shrugs.
Daughter and I are heaving with silent mirth by now. Husband is shaking his head, eyes wide, and is backing away towards the door.
"So you are going to swing from the rigging of your Traditional Pirate boat in your Traditional Pirate gear," I say, between squeaks, "land on the deck of a Saga cruise ship, run to the dining hall and shout 'Shiver me Timbers!' and steal all the sugar bowls?"
"Yeah," says Small Boy, looking rather hurt at my giggling.
"We'd better warn the Aged Ps," says Husband with a knowing look. "You know how much they love their cruises."

The Real Dr Who

"We've got science today," Small Boy announces breezily on the way to school. "Oh, that reminds me. What's the name of that particle thingie that they've discovered which means that Dr Who is real?"
"Do you mean the neutrino?" I ask. I do not disabuse him of the notion that Dr Who is not real, as I have always secretly hoped he might be myself.
"Yes," says Small Boy confidently. "So now they've discovered it, does it mean we can go back in time?"
"I hope not," says Daughter. "People would change things and that would muck up history."
I am momentarily impressed by this perceptive comment. "Yes, that's right. You can't fiddle about with the Space-Time Continuum, you know."
Daughter shoots me a withering look and says, "You are so weird. Anyway, I'm much more interested in finding out why we have hair on our heads."
"What?" I ask, silently urging the cyclist to get off and walk up the hill so that we can get to school quicker. Chris is still away. Miranda Hart is doing a sterling job, but John Holmes is not so good. And I can't see why putting a tall woman and a short man together on the radio is deemed a good idea. I have written to the BBC to express my dismay.
"Well, we have all this hair on our heads which we put into ponytails and plaits and things with scrunchies and hair slides and bands and stuff, but we don't do any of that with the hair on our bodies, do we?" Daughter persists.
"And this has what, precisely, to do with time travel?" I ask.
"S'obvious," Small Boy chips in. "If we could travel back in time, we could ask the cave men why they stopped growing hair all over the place except on their heads."
"Well, we don't only have hair on our heads--" I begin, and immediately regret it.
"URGH! DON'T!" Daughter squeals, flapping her hands in the air. "That is like TOTALLY DISGUSTING!"
"You're the one who started talking about body hair," I protest.
"Anyway, I was talking about time travel," says Small Boy determinedly steering the conversation back on track. I smile at him gratefully in the rear view mirror. "So, IS it going to be possible to travel in time now we have the new-treen-thingie?"
"Who knows?" I answer vaguely. "After all, things that we considered improbable in science fiction years ago are now part of our daily lives."
"Like hairdryers?" says Small Boy.
"Er, ye-es."
"No, you numpty," spits Daughter. "She means like mobile phones and computers and things."
"WHAT? You mean a computer was like a science fiction sorta thing when you were young?" Small Boy gasps.
"Yes, we didn't have computers when I was your age. Well, not good ones," I add.
"Aha! So you did actually have computers," Small Boy picks me up on my error. "As if you could live without computers," he mutters under his breath.
I think back to those dreary afternoons watching a tiny blip bat backwards and forwards across the screen of the ZX81 while Dad excitedly showed me how to "play tennis on the computer". I was more than happy to live without that particular computer.
"Well, you'll just have to take my word for it - we didn't have the kind of technology you have today," I say. "I didn't get a mobile phone until you were born and when I was your age, the TV had just three channels and Auntie C and I were allowed to watch only two of them."
"WHAT?" the children chorus. "What was wrong with the third one?"
I think of Mother mouthing the word "common" in a Miranda-esque manner whenever ITV was mentioned, and decide I don't want to introduce my children to the idea of putting things into a mental box marked "common".
"It - er - it didn't have Dr Who on!" I say, turning down the road to school at last.
"Oh wow - so you didn't have computers, but you DID have Dr Who?" Small Boy is gobsmacked. "So that proves he is really real then."
"Oh, shut up," says Daughter.
"No but, yes but, listen!" Small Boy is bouncing violently in the back of the car now, his whole body electric with excitement. "S'bovious, isn't it? If Dr Who was around when Mum was little but there were no computers when Mum was little, there must be time travel because Dr Who has computers and he was around when Mum was little and he uses computers all the time so he must have been using computers when Mum was little and so that proves that the new-treen-thing is right and time travel and Dr Who DO EXIST! I am so going to tell my science teacher all that in lessons today."
He flops back in his seat, arms folded decisively, a resolute and happy grin on his face.
So much for that small matter of the Theory of Relativity, I think.
Einstein, mate, your game is up. You've been out-theorised by a ten year old.

Woman Flu

It is 27 degrees outside and my family and the other animals are larking around in the garden. I am watching it from my vantage point beneath a tent of towel, bent over a steaming bowl of boiling water. It's not hot enough outside for me; I have created my own sauna in the kitchen.
"Whatcherdoin'?" asks Small Boy, careering into the kitchen with his Lavender Pekin in one hand and a handful of grass in the other. "Is it an 'xperiment, cos if it is, can I have a go?"
"NO!" I croak. "It is NOT an experiment. I've got a cold."
"Oh no! Not AGAIN!" my sympathetic son groans. "You are ALWAYS getting colds!"
I wonder why, I think darkly, remembering the previous week which entailed doling out hankies and paracetamol to snot-filled children, who mope around snuffling for a mere 24 hours and then bounce out of bed bright-eyed and full of insolence the second it's all over.
Husband comes in, takes one glance at my shivery, sweaty appearance and delivers the most withering of looks. "Go to bed," he commands. "You're useless draped about the place like a wet fish."
I think more dark thoughts about a past conversation that involve the words "man flu" and "why the hell don't you take the day off work" but decide that going to bed is less exhausting than being a martyr, and it is far too much of an effort to attain the moral high ground from my current position. And so I obey.
From my bed I can hear the birds singing merrily, in blissful ignorance that it is actually October and not a great time to start mating and building nests again. I can also hear Daughter and Small Boy engaged in a vicious argument over whose turn it is to go on Sims and look after the virtual mother who is virtually sick.
I cough lamely in the hope they might come and tend their real mother who is really sick, but if they hear me, they don't react.
Psycho Cat stalks into the room, her body language even twitchier than normal. She jumps on to the bed, landing heavily on my chest, setting off another coughing fit and shoves her face into mine. She has the worst breath of any living creature I have yet to meet, and that is saying something since the dog's most favoured snacks contain things I cannot bring myself to write about in my delicate state. "Roooawoooow!" she complains, digging her claws into me for good measure. I cannot help but think she hasn't come to keep me company or worry about my welfare.
"Muuu-um!" Small Boy comes in, clutching Husband's iPod in his sweaty little hand. "I have to show you this. It's soooo funny!"
I try to explain that my head is banging and that I really cannot look at a small brightly lit screen just now.
"No, but seriously, really you have to see it!" he persists, shoving the screen at me. At least it doesn't smell of rotting mouse carcass, I think.
Small Boy proceeds to show me endless clips from YouTube of Asdf movies. For the uninitiated, these are cartoons of stick men saying, for example, "Look, I've baked you a pie!" "Oh boy! What flavour is it?" "Pie Flavour!" This has Small Boy rolling around on the floor in hysterics and quoting the sketches back to me over and over and over again until I feel I must be hallucinating.
I dutifully watch all the clips nonetheless and finish by realising that, no, I am not hallucinating.
I am just sick.
And old.
Very sick and very very old.