Daughter is revising.
She is making it clear to anyone who will listen that this constitutes the End of Life as We Know It. She has also stolen my desk chair and all my pens, used sheaths of my computer paper and interrupts my work constantly by slouching into the kitchen while foraging for food and sighing a lot behind a curtain of unwashed hair.
"It's not fair," she wails at regular intervals. "Revision sucks!"
I decide to cheer her up by cooking a family lunch which has been carefully chosen to contain a selection of her favourite things. I think of it as a sacrifice offered to appease the twin gods of Sulk and Despair. It seems to work for a few minutes: the offerings are consumed heartily, and laughter and jokes are shared, but as soon as the spoon clatters into the bowl a loud sigh is uttered.
"While I was eating that ice cream, my life was good," declaims Daughter. "But now I have to get back to work, so my life is rubbish again."
Husband and I exchange looks.
"I'll do the washing up," I say.
Daughter curls her lip at me. "Really?" she says, scorn and faux-Americana oozing from every letter of the word. (I think this is meant to mean something along the lines of: "Do you really think that is going to make me feel any better about the fact I have to REVISE?")
"And then," I continue, "I think I might sit and read the paper for a bit."
"Oh wow," says Daughter. "Get you and your nice weekend." She flicks her hair and leaves the room, her curse hanging in the air like a bad smell.
Alea iacta est, as the Aged Ps might say.
The curse takes effect, just as I am washing the last plate and am thinking, with a smile, of the cup of tea I will drink while sitting on the sofa with the newspaper spread across my lap.
I glance out of the window and see . . . the Dog racing to far side of the garden. That looks odd, I think, as she sniffs at something and--
"NOOOOOO!" I yell.
Too late, the Dog has rolled. And she only ever rolls in one thing. Fox poo.
I hide my head in my hands, and the vision of sofa, tea and newspaper disappears like the sun behind a Bank Holiday rain cloud.
The Dog returns, joyfully, to share her au de chien with the rest of the house, rubbing herself against me and the furniture as she passes. I run, screaming, to grab dog-shampoo, dog-lead and the jet hose.
Then just as I am rinsing the Dog's head and leaping to one side to avoid being sprayed by the Dog shaking herself on to me, Psycho Cat pounces on our one friendly robin. I dash to intervene, hose still in one hand, but am, again, too late. The bird is fluttering helplessly, one leg and one one wing broken. I hesitate as I try to decide whether to finish the dastardly deed myself or leave it to the cat, when through the kitchen door, I spot Jet, the other cat, who has leapt on to the remains of the roast chicken, her yellow eyes shining with glee.
"ARGH!" I yell, throwing the hose to the ground. "Someone HELP ME!"
Husband appears, grinning and covered from head to toe in stinking brown gloop.
"What on earth--?" I gawp.
"I was just making some weed compost," he explains cheerfully. "What's the matter?"
"The animals - dead bird - filthy fox poo - roast chicken!" I stammer.
"Ah," says Husband, surveying the scene. "So much for you and your nice weekend, eh?"
She is making it clear to anyone who will listen that this constitutes the End of Life as We Know It. She has also stolen my desk chair and all my pens, used sheaths of my computer paper and interrupts my work constantly by slouching into the kitchen while foraging for food and sighing a lot behind a curtain of unwashed hair.
"It's not fair," she wails at regular intervals. "Revision sucks!"
I decide to cheer her up by cooking a family lunch which has been carefully chosen to contain a selection of her favourite things. I think of it as a sacrifice offered to appease the twin gods of Sulk and Despair. It seems to work for a few minutes: the offerings are consumed heartily, and laughter and jokes are shared, but as soon as the spoon clatters into the bowl a loud sigh is uttered.
"While I was eating that ice cream, my life was good," declaims Daughter. "But now I have to get back to work, so my life is rubbish again."
Husband and I exchange looks.
"I'll do the washing up," I say.
Daughter curls her lip at me. "Really?" she says, scorn and faux-Americana oozing from every letter of the word. (I think this is meant to mean something along the lines of: "Do you really think that is going to make me feel any better about the fact I have to REVISE?")
"And then," I continue, "I think I might sit and read the paper for a bit."
"Oh wow," says Daughter. "Get you and your nice weekend." She flicks her hair and leaves the room, her curse hanging in the air like a bad smell.
Alea iacta est, as the Aged Ps might say.
The curse takes effect, just as I am washing the last plate and am thinking, with a smile, of the cup of tea I will drink while sitting on the sofa with the newspaper spread across my lap.
I glance out of the window and see . . . the Dog racing to far side of the garden. That looks odd, I think, as she sniffs at something and--
"NOOOOOO!" I yell.
Too late, the Dog has rolled. And she only ever rolls in one thing. Fox poo.
I hide my head in my hands, and the vision of sofa, tea and newspaper disappears like the sun behind a Bank Holiday rain cloud.
The Dog returns, joyfully, to share her au de chien with the rest of the house, rubbing herself against me and the furniture as she passes. I run, screaming, to grab dog-shampoo, dog-lead and the jet hose.
Then just as I am rinsing the Dog's head and leaping to one side to avoid being sprayed by the Dog shaking herself on to me, Psycho Cat pounces on our one friendly robin. I dash to intervene, hose still in one hand, but am, again, too late. The bird is fluttering helplessly, one leg and one one wing broken. I hesitate as I try to decide whether to finish the dastardly deed myself or leave it to the cat, when through the kitchen door, I spot Jet, the other cat, who has leapt on to the remains of the roast chicken, her yellow eyes shining with glee.
"ARGH!" I yell, throwing the hose to the ground. "Someone HELP ME!"
Husband appears, grinning and covered from head to toe in stinking brown gloop.
"What on earth--?" I gawp.
"I was just making some weed compost," he explains cheerfully. "What's the matter?"
"The animals - dead bird - filthy fox poo - roast chicken!" I stammer.
"Ah," says Husband, surveying the scene. "So much for you and your nice weekend, eh?"
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