All it takes is a faith and trust - and a Little Bit of Pixie Dust

Not-So-Small Boy and I are stuck in traffic, and he is filling me in on School Life.
"We think William's sister has a boyfriend, so we were teasing her about it last night when we all walked out of school together," he confides.
William's sister is sixteen, or thereabouts. I am sure she is thrilled about two giggly eleven-year-old boys teasing her in front of their friends. I decide not to criticise as criticism inevitably leads to conversational shut-down. I will learn more if I just stick to chit-chat.
"What's his name?"I ask.
"Well, it wouldn't be fair for me to tell you that," my son says, frowning.
"Clearly," I say.
"So, me 'n' William have decided to use a code word instead. We are going to call him Beano because his name sounds like one of the characters in the Beano!"
"Right." I shudder to think.
"Which reminds me!" Not-So-Small Boy says, bouncing in his seat. "I've got a new nickname!"
"Oh?"
"Yeah. It's Tinker Bell!"
I put all my energies into not crashing into the car in front. "WHAT?"
"Yeah. It's coz there's going to be a school play next term and we think it's Peter Pan and I said could I be Tinker Bell?"
"As in . . . Tinker Bell the fairy?" I ask, staring resolutely ahead.
"Yes!"
"As in . . . the fairy who wears a tutu and waves a wand?"
"Yes!"
"But - a fairy?"
"Yes!"
I swallow hard.
"Why?"
"S'obvious. I get to fly!" Not-So-Small Boy flings his arms wide and beams with delight.
"But - But," I stammer. "But PETER PAN flies! And John, and Michael. And the Lost BOYS - don't they fly as well?" I have no idea, but I am clutching at straws here. I refuse to mention Wendy. I don't want to be responsible for where that might lead.
"Yeah, but they don't have pixie dust, do they?" says my son triumphantly. "THAT is cool."
"Right." I take deep, steady breaths. I can see his mind is made up.
"Anyway, so that's why my new nickname is Tinker Bell," my son says. "And Molly has even changed my name on her phone to say 'Tinker Bell'."
"And you're fine with that?" I ask.
"Course, why not?" my son says, looking puzzled. "Why wouldn't I be?"
I cannot help but admire his confidence. I smile. "Absolutely," I say. "Why wouldn't you?"

Don't Mention the Lingua Latina!

I ring the Aged Ps, armed with amusing anecdotes. I refuse to let the conversation descend into its usual rant against The State of the Nation, The Weather or What A Terrible Year This Has Been. Mother is gearing up for her annual Annus Horribilis speech early this year, and I am not in the mood for another rehearsal. Bearing this in mind, I have armed myself with a list of prohibited topics so that I can steer a path through the conversation to sunnier themes.

The list is as follows:

Thou shalt not mention Ed Milliband in the same sentence as Disraeli
This is sure to set off a diatribe against the conniving nature of the shifty left who will do anything to get into power. (Trouble is, I sort of agree with this. If Milliband can side with Disraeli, it won't be long before Thatcher gets a mention. But THOU SHALT NOT start this conversation because . . . )

Thou shalt DEFINITELY not mention Thatcher at all EVER
Mother worships at her shrine. The hagiography that ensues at the mere whisper of the woman's name is enough to turn the strongest of stomachs. In fact, come to think of it . . .

Thou shalt not bring up the topic of politics at all!
Which is hard, considering the only other stories in the news at the moment are about sex offenders or child murderers. And she would be bound to take great pleasure in reminding me about that letter to "Jim'll Fix It" about wanting to go in the Tardis.

So, if I can't talk about what's in the news, what else is there to talk about other than the weather?

This is why I have decided to focus on the children and how charming and wonderful they are.

"Hello, it's me."
"Oh, it's you."
"Hello, love!"
The Aged Ps have surpassed themselves. They have picked up the phone as one Aged Being.
"So, how are you?" I ask. I immediately kick myself. This was not the opening move I had planned.
"I'm fine," says Dad.
"Well, you know . . ." Mother begins. "Not so good. What with this dreadful weather. And the news - it's nothing but shifty politicians and disgusting sex offenders, which reminds me! Didn't you once write a letter to--"
"Your grandson is doing ever so well in Latin at the moment!" I shout, in desperation.
Latin?? Why did I have to mention THAT?
"Oh, quid mira et intelligens nepos habemus!" trills Mother.
I groan softly, put my head in my hands and thank the gods that she has not yet mastered Skype as I proceed to bang my forehead quietly on the table.
"Ita vero! Est mirabilie. Est continuans familia traditionem," Dad agrees.
H-e-l-p m-e! I mouth to Not-So-Small-Boy.
"I found a magazine our grandson would like, actually," says Dad.
"Great - a wildlife one?" I ask.
"No. A Latin one," says Dad. "It's full of cartoons and stories and pictures - and it's all in Latin! Isn't that great?"
I cannot take this any more, so I pass the phone to my son.
"Hi Grandpa," he chirps. "Yes . . . yes . . . I love Latin. Did you know that turdus stupidus means stupid thrush! It's so cool - it means you can swear without actually really swearing! And "turdus" is a hilarious word for a bird! And there is this other even more hilarious word "furcifer", which sound like "fuc--"
I grab the phone back.
"So, what did you think about Ed Milliband's One Nation speech?" I ask.
I sit back, close my eyes and let the battle commence.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

It is Saturday and I am getting ready to go and give a talk at the Cheltenham Literature Festival. I would like to think that this would mean my family might treat me with a mite more respect than usual, but it is not to be.
"Morning," says Not-So-Small Boy.
"Hey! Stop waving that spoon in my face, please," I say, backing away.
"But I was only going to scoop out your ear-wax," he replies.
"Do what?"
"Yeah, I was going to scoop out your ear wax like the Vikings used to do before going into battle," my son continues eagerly.
"Erm, I hate to break it to you, but firstly I am not a Viking, and secondly I do not have enough ear wax to merit it being scooped and thirdly I am not going into battle. I am going to give a talk to fifty seven-year-olds. Actually . . ." I pause. "Maybe the two things are pretty similar, but I still don't want you scooping anything out of my ear with a dessert spoon, thanks."
"Oooh!" Not-So-Small Boy looks downcast. "But you've done your hair and put make-up on, which is kind of also what the Vikings used to do to look good when they went into battle, so you might as well have your ear wax scraped out, too," he pleads.
"No," I say firmly.
My son bangs the spoon down crossly. "I have just realised that you have lots of opinions on things that really don't matter at all," he announces.
"Like not wanting to have my ear wax scraped out with a spoon?" I say.
"Yeah. That and you don't like it when people say 'annual leave' instead of 'holiday' and you don't like swearing but you swear all the time when you are driving and--"
"Right. Have you quite finished with your character assassination?" I ask, getting up to leave. "Only I have to go now."
"Good luck," says Husband. "You'll be great."
"Huumpf," says my son. "Only if you are not patronising. You always sound patronising when you talk to little kids."
"Great," I say. "So I've got waxy ears, I have stupid opinions on things that don't matter at all, and I am patronising."
"At least there's no danger of things going to your head," says Husband.
Indeed. Out of the mouths of babes and all that.