Wii Are Not Fit

It is raining. It is raining so hard that even Small Boy refuses to go outside. It takes a lot to prevent Small Boy from going out, as he "feels sick after being inside for too long" apparently.
But today the trees are bent double in the wind and the chickens are sheltering under the nesting boxes huddled together to prevent their feathers from being ripped off. The dog is letting out great rumbling sighs of despondency and the cats have their faces to the back of the sofa. Daughter is out for the day and Husband is avoiding having to deal with an overactive Small Boy by having an extended lie-in.
I am trying to ignore him too, by reading the paper.
It is not working.
"Let's go on the Wii!" shouts Small Boy, after his fifty-sixth lap of the kitchen table. "I've got too much energy and I need to get rid of it."
"So I see," I say from behind the newspaper. "OK, I quite fancy using the Wii Fit anyway."
We spend the next hour cursing the Wii for not being a sentient being. It has "unsynced" itself and does not seem to respond to us hurling abuse at it or hurling the controls around the room. Finally the light that is supposed to stop flashing stops flashing and we have lift-off.
I stand on the balance board and attempt the Tree Pose and the Warrior Pose while Small Boy rolls about on the floor, shaking with laughter at my pathetically low "Yoga Novice" score.
"Can't you even stand straight?" he roars. "Look at me, I can do it easily."
He pushes me off, leaps on to the board and balances, Zen-like, arms above his head, one leg out at 90 degrees behind him, his eyes closed. PING! He scores 100 and is crowned "Yoga Master".
Oh to be small again.
"I'll show you a really brilliant way of getting high scores all the time," he says, noticing my crestfallen expression. "All you have to do is just stand on the board and not do anything at all." He demonstrates.
"Yes, very impressive," I say. "Only, I'm more interested in getting something out of doing the actual yoga rather than simply achieving a high score."
"Why?" asks Small Boy, his eyes boggling at his mother's ridiculousness.
"Never mind. Shall we try another game instead?"
Small Boy grabs the controls and clicks on "free jogging".
"Isn't this just jogging on the spot?" I ask incredulously, as the instructions come up on the screen informing us that we do not need the balance board because we will be . . . jogging on the spot.
"No! Deeerrrr!" says Small Boy. "You have to follow the cat and observe things as you go."
"While jogging on the spot," I point out.
"Well, OK, but - oh, just do it all right?"
Small Boy keeps control of the remote (like father, like son) and begins jogging. On the spot. "Come on, Mum, you've got to run with me!" he yells, pumping his skinny little arms and legs up and down.
Within seconds the Mii has overtaken the cat and has gone head-over-heels and whacked its virtual head on the ground.
"Heeeheheheheheheeeee!" cries Small Boy. "This is awesome! Come on, we're on our feet again. Let's go!"
By the end of the game we have virtually tripped eleven times and scored a pathetic score which labels us "Dwindling Fire".
"I LOVE that game," says Small Boy.
"But you got a terrible score!" I say. "I thought you only cared about getting the best score possible?"
"Yeah, but it doesn't matter this time cos I didn't log you off before we started. So actually it is you that has the lowest score ever! Isn't that hilarious?"
Isn't it, though.

Where There's A Will . . .

Husband and I have been revising our will. Small Boy comes in on the end of a discussion about how much detail we need to include about our possessions.
"What do I get when you die?" he chirps.
"Oh, I - I don't know," I falter. I hadn't banked on him being part of the decision-making process.
"Can I have your saxophone?" he asks. "It should go to me really cos I can get a better sound out of it than my sister. She can have the piano," he adds generously.
"OK," I say.
"And I think I should have the house, cos I am the boy," he says.
"Now hold on a minute!" says Husband. "We're not going anywhere just yet."
"More to the point," I say, "I think you'll find that the 1701 Act of Settlement is to be altered to allow firstborn daughters to inherit."
Small Boy gives me a Paddington stare.
"Yes anyway, I am going to get the house when Dad dies," he continues.
"Oh, and what about me?" I ask.
"You can live in the garage. You're always going on about wanting to convert it."
"Yes, into a writing shed!" I say. "Not a granny annexe."
Daughter walks in. "What are you talking about?"
"Who gets what when they die," says Small Boy. "I'm getting the saxphone and the house."
"WHAT?" says Daughter.
"I think you can handle this," says Husband. "I'm off now."
Daughter corrals me into a corner. "Since when were you two dying?"
"We're not!" I protest. "Not yet, anyway."
"And if you do, what will happen to me?" she demands, hands on hips. "Who will I live with? Have you thought of that?"
"Yes, we have actually--"
"Oh not Grandma and Grandpa!" Small Boy wails. "They're almost dead already!"
"It's OK, I think we might ask your aunts and uncles to be guardians," I say. I am getting a bit flustered.
"Bagsy live with Uncle Charlie!" shouts Small Boy.
"Oh look at that!" I shout, remembering long forgotten distraction techniques from when they were toddlers. "It's time for 'Big Bang Theory'."
"YAY!" shouts Small Boy.
"Bagsy sit in the corner of the sofa!" shouts Daughter, hurtling out of the room.
The dog sidles up to me and looks at me mournfully.
"It's all right," I say. "You're quite probably going to die before me, so you don't need to worry about going to live with Grandma either."
She sighs gratefully and returns to her basket.

WAR IS PEACE, HEALTHY IS SICK

I break off from cooking supper, looking up the scientific definition of "adaptation" for Small Boy, feeding the dog, shoving the cat off the butter dish, hanging out the washing, booking train tickets for Husband and policing Daughter's use of Facebook to call the Aged Ps. I know I should not shoehorn this duty into the evening as it will only end in my becoming frustrated, but they called last night and I ignored the phone, so if I do not call tonight, they will start ringing every hour on the hour until I crack. I am sure they were trained in Extraordinary Rendition at their ante-natal classes.
I breathe deeply and dial.
Luckily Dad answers.
(He always puts on his I-used-to-be-a-lawyer voice when answering the phone, announcing his full name and reciting back his telephone number. I half expect him to advise me that before proceeding I should know that he will be charging me £500 for his time.)
"Hello, it's me," I mutter, my head in the oven. (I am still fussing over supper, not resorting to ending it all - yet).
"Ah! Hello, love!" Dad relaxes into Normal Human Mode. "I'll just get your mother--"
"NOOOOO!"
Too late. There is an ear-shattering clattering noise in my ear and then a grumpy, "Hello."
"Hi," I sigh.
"I want to talk to you about the summer," says Mother.
"I'm fine and how are you?" I say.
"I am not very well, as you know, and I am going to have an operation in the summer--"
"I thought that wasn't definite?" I cut in before I have to listen to all the details of what is going on Down There again.
"Well it may be definite, so I need to plan what is happening this summer just in case it is definite," Mother snaps.
"O-kaaay," I say. "Well, we were thinking of coming to see you at the end of July as usual--"
"That's my point. The end of July is terrible because I might be definitely having my operation."
"Right. Well, we could leave it until you know for sure?" I suggest.
"No, you can't do that!" Mother protests. "I want to see you!"
"Yes, that's why I'm suggesting we come and visit," I say.
"But if you come and visit and I'm having my operation, then I won't see you," Mother says.
Dad sniggers.
"Well, why don't we put the dates in the diary and then when you know whether or not you're going to be having an operation--"
"Which I might definitely be--"
"Then we can make some firm decisions."
"But I want to SEE YOU!" Mother wails.
Dad sniggers again.
I am beginning to feel out of my depth. Mother has perfected the art of doublethink to the point that I am no longer sure that we are conversant in the same language.
I am now beyond frustrated. I knew I should have listened to that little voice telling me not to call.

We Will Most Definitely Rock You

William has come round again. He has brought one of his sisters this time and they, together with my two children, have decided to put on a show. They are planning to re-write the words of the rap from the Yeo Valley website to make it more relevant to their own lives.
"Coz you see, we have lambs and pigs and chickens as well as cows, whereas the Yeo Valley people only have cows," William explains.
After an hour or so of squabbling, the four children announce they are hungry. We sit down to lunch in the garden and I ask them how their performance is coming along.
"What, you mean apart from the fact that the boys are rubbish and can't sing and can't dance and won't do what we say?" asks Daughter, her friend joining in with a few "yeah"s and exquisitely timed eye-rolls.
"Hey!" interjects Small Boy. "We are so NOT rubbish at singing and dancing!"
"Yeah!" says William, "coz actually we are both going to be in the school muscial next term, so there."
"Oh yes," I say. "Remind me what it's going to be about?"
"We are doing 'We Will Rock You'," says William proudly.
"The Queen musical?" I ask.
"Yes," the boys chorus.
The mind goes beyond boggling and into the realms of complete and utter bamboozlement.
"And, er, which part are you playing, William?" I ask.
"I am going to be a Yuppie," he replies proudly. "And Ollie is going to be Scaramouche--"
"And I am going to be a Bo-heem-ium," says Small Boy.
"Don't you mean a Bohemian?" I offer.
"That's what I said."
The girls exchange eye-rolls.
"But it's a shame we didn't all get the parts we wanted," William chirps up.
"Oh? Which role did you want?" I ask.
William sighs heavily. "I really really wanted to be the Killer Queen," he says.
I choke on my drink. "Is that so?" I splutter.
Daughter and her friend erupt into hysterical laughter. "Do you, like, even know what a queen is?" they shriek.
William and Small Boy look at each other and shrug.
"It's, like, a man who wants to be a woman!" the girls howl.
"Well, not quite--" I begin.
"Oh, you mean an Elizabethan?" William says.
"You mean a lesbian, duh," says Small Boy.
"Same thing," says William.
"I think I can safely say that you will most definitely be Rocking Us if you take on that particular role, William," I say.

At the risk of sounding like the Aged Ps, whatever do they TEACH kids these days?

The Aged Ps Ring To Share Their Latest Purchase - With Each Other

The Aged Ps have been on the phone in stereo rather a lot this holiday. They seem to think that because the children are on holiday I must be too, and that that will mean I will be standing by the phone at all hours, just waiting for the latest update on their health, holiday plans, latest purchases and trips to Tunbridge Wells, the one-way traffic system, speed bumps, Waitrose versus Sainsbury's, and exactly what they think about Ken Livingstone.
Today's call is typical of the kind of thing I have sat and listened to over the past three weeks.
"It's me," says Mother. "How are you?"
"Oh, well I've got a bit of a cold actually--"
"Really. Well, y'father and I are feeling a bit under the weather, so we thought we'd go and buy ourselves something to cheer us up," says Mother.
"That's nice," I say, cracking open a fresh crate of gin. (It's only ten thirty, but needs must.)
"Yes," says Dad. "So we bought a book called '50 People Who Buggered Up Britain' by Quentin Letts."
"That sounds, er, edifying?" I offer.
"It missed out a few people though," says Dad.
"Well, it would have done, wouldn't it?" says Mother. "There are only 50 people in the book, and we know there are more than 50 people who have buggered up Britain, so--"
"Hello!" I shout. "I am still here!"
"Who's that?" says Mother.
"Me, your daughter?" I say. "You phoned me."
"Did we?" asks Dad. "That's funny. I thought I was talking to y'mother."
"And I thought I was talking to y'father," says Mother.
"You were, but-- nevermind," I say. "So, what have you been up to - other than reading about people buggering up Britain?"
"Well, for a start we've not been sleeping," says Mother.
"You've been sleeping," says Dad.
"No, I haven't," says Mother.
"Yes, you have. I heard you snoring," says Dad.
"Well that wasn't me," says Mother.
"HELLO!" I try again.
"Who's that?"
"Well, it's been lovely talking to you both," I say, "but I must get on."
"Why?" says Mother. "I thought you were on holiday. I haven't told you what I think of Ken Livingstone yet."
"He should be number 51!" chortles Dad.
"He should bloody well be number 1!" scoffs Mother.
"And what about that ghastly Tony Blair?" chips in Dad.
"Bye then!" I whisper, and put the phone down.

The Remarkable New Chicken Hotel

It is STILL the holidays. Small Boy's best friend and partner in crime, William, has been a regular fixture at our house this holiday. Their main project has been to construct a new chicken house out of an old chest of drawers and copious quantities of nails, with the aid of the entire contents of Husband's toolbox. I go out into the garden to find the two small boys, heads bent together in earnest chatter, fifteen million different types of screwdriver, hammer and drill-bit strewn about the lawn.
"What I think, is that it's obvious really, and it's that you need to make one of those doors which goes up and down," William is saying. "Coz that's what Adam Henson does on Countryfile, so it must be the best way to do it."
"Well, what I think, is that this is for my chickens and it's my garden and my dad's toolbox, so I am going to try my idea first," says Small Boy, somewhat tetchily.
I regard the rickety construction dubiously. The boys have placed one drawer on the ground, taken a second and upended it on the first to make a closed-up box. They have hammered hundreds of nails at random points all around the sides, but have not succeeded in bashing them all the way through the wood, so they are now whacking the nails flat against the edges "to smooth things off".
"I - er, I hesitate to say this," I begin.
"Yes?" Small Boy juts out his bottom jaw in challenge.
"Well, it's only that I'm not sure you've made this chicken house big enough for any of the chickens to fit inside," I say.
Small Boy draws himself up to his full height, hands on hips and yells, "Are you telling me that I have wasted MY WHOLE DAY MAKING THIS?" He sounds alarmingly like me.
"N-no, well, yes," I admit, backing away quickly. "Why don't you just finish off and then we can do a trial run with the Pekin? She's the smallest," I point out.
Small Boy grits his teeth dangerously. William puts a mollifying hand on his arm. "Let's finish the door which goes up and down first," he says.

Two hours later, the door which goes up and down is indeed going up and down with the aid of an unfeasibly long piece of string. Titch, the shivering Lavender Pekin, has been put inside the box, the door has been lowered and we are all assembled for the Grand Opening. Titch is making some very unusual and distinctly distressed noises from inside the new house.
"I now declare the Remarkable New Chicken Hotel well and truly open!" cries Small Boy, yanking the string which lifts the door and sends fifty-six jaggedy nails flying in all directions.
A small, terrified chicken emerges in the doorway to rapturous applause.
"And now, Titch on Film!" declares Small Boy, waving his iPod in my face.
He proceeds to show me a terribly moving clip of the tiny bird entering the Remarkable New Chicken Hotel with much over-enthusiastic pushing and shoving from two giggling small boys, set against a backing track of Adele's "Rolling in the Deep".
"Lovely," I say. "All we need now is Bill Nighy and Dame Judy Dench, and we could make a fortune out of this."
"Oooh! Enough to buy some more nails and chicken wire so William and me can finish the run to go with the hotel?" cries Small Boy.
"Just about enough for that, yes," I say wearily. "Just about enough."

Small Boy: The Movie

It is the holidays. The children are bemoaning the fact that we not doing "anything interesting".
"It's not fair!" wails Daughter. "We only ever go to Cornwall. And it always rains."
"Lucky we're not going there this holiday, then," I say.
"NOO! But staying at home is EVEN WORSE!"
"Anyway, what's wrong with Cornwall? You love Cornwall," I say.
"Ye-es, butanywaythat'snotthepoint," Daughter says with a withering look. "What I mean is that Everyone Else is going somewhere fantastic. Libbie is going to the Caribbean, Lobbie is going to Italy and Loobie is going to Egypt. And as for Millie, Mollie and Mandie--"
"Yeah AND," cuts in Small Boy, "Ollie is going to New York."
Husband and I exchange a look.
"So where would you like to go?" Husband asks (the children, not me I should add).
"Riding in America!" cries Daughter.
"Exploring in the Galapagos!" yells Small Boy.
Bugger that Charles Darwin, I think.
"Or Madagascar!" shrieks Small Boy.
And as for that David Attenborough . . .
"OK, OK," Husband has held up a hand in an attempt to look as though he has control of the situation. "I must admit I was thinking more along the lines of Spain or Portugal, but . . ." he smiles indulgently at Small Boy. "What if I promise that when you get Grade 8 Trombone I'll take you to the Galapagos."
I look horrified. "I know we want him to practise more, but--"
"Yes, erm . . ." Husband is already regetting his rashness. "Maybe if you get Grade 8 Trombone AND piano and Daughter gets Grade 8 violin--"
"And I get a film deal," I add with heavy sarcasm.
"Oh, I've already had one of those," says Small Boy airily.
"Yeah, right," says Daughter with an extravagant eye-roll.
"I did," Small Boy protests. "But I had to turn it down because I was going to play at William's."
Husband and I exchange another look.
"What was the role you were offered?" I ask.
"It was to be a giant Easter Egg Superhero," Small Boy announces.
"And how exactly can a giant Easter Egg be a superhero?" asks Daughter.
"Easy, you roll over your enemies and SQUASH THEM FLAT!" Small Boy replies, with a victory salute.
"Wow," I say. "Shame you turned down the roll."
"Why's that?"
"Sounds like it would have been a box office hit." I sigh. "Oh well, looks like it's Cornwall again for us this summer . . ."

Long Live King Small Boy!

Small Boy is elaborating on his plans to conquer the world, the universe and everything. He has moved on from wanting to own Asda and be Prime Minister. His plans are now grander and a sight more dangerous, it seems.
"I am going to be King of England," he announces.
"Pah!" says Daughter. "You're too small."
Small Boy squares up to his sister. "So? Edward VI was small. In fact he was only nine and he actually founded our school."
"Deeerrrrr," says Daughter. "That was in Olden Times. People didn't live long then. You would actually be dead by now, Mum," she adds cheerfully.
"Thanks," I say. I turn to Small Boy. "Aside from age, there is the minor matter of how you think you are going to accede to the throne?"
"Easy," he says. "Kill the Queen, Prince Charles and Prince William."
"Right. That's actually treason, not to mention triple murder," I point out.
"Oh well it doesn't matter, cos once I am king I can change all that," says Small Boy airily.
I try a different tack. "You don't have royal blood."
"I do," Small Boy assures me. "Everyone does, cos we are all related. Charles Darwin and the scientists proved it with the Tree of Life and DNA and everything."
"Mmmm, I think you've been a bit generous with your interpretation of the facts--"
"Whatever," Small Boy waves his hand impatiently at me. "Anyway, when I am King I will start by having a special new police force."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I'll get rid of the boring old Metropolitan lot and I'll replace them with the Neapolitan Police instead."
"You're going to recruit from Italy?" I ask. I am feeling increasingly out of my depth.
"No, silly!" Small Boy tuts and rolls his eyes. "I'm going to use policemen who wear pink, yellow and brown uniforms."
"And what will this special police force bring to the establishment of law and order exactly?"
"Ice cream for everyone, of course."
Of course. Silly me. Why did I need to ask?