Family WTF
These are all scattered throughout the blog. But if you like your insanity all in one shot... you're welcome! In chronological order...
Starting from 2012...
Son 2: Mum?
Me: Yes?
Son 2: Do you know the little baby Jesus?
Me: Yes.
Son 2: Was Mary married to two men at the same time?
Me: No sweetheart, just Joseph.
Son 2: Oh. So, was she cheating on Joseph with God?
Me: Er, no, she wasn't cheating sweetheart.
Son 2: But God is Jesus's father.
Me: Yes. God put Jesus in Mary's belly, I suppose you could call it by magic.
Son 2: Ah. So Jesus is like a genie then? Only you didn't have to rub Mary's belly for him to come out and he came out the normal way?
Me: No, Jesus isn't like a genie. Nothing like a genie. More toast?
The one where I very mistakenly decide to read my 1980's copies of Enid Blyton's Enchanted Wood to my children...
All three children on the bottom bunk, gathered round, snug in their pyjamas, ready to make a start on 'The Enchanted Wood'. I could still remember Moonface and his slippery slip slide from his house to the bottom of the tree, Silky the fairy with the long golden hair. Watsisname. The quite deaf Saucepan Man. And of course, the Angry Pixie. As if it was yesterday. A time of innocence and wonder... I picture myself reading to my three angelic, pyjamaed angels, cheeks rosy, eyes wide as I relay these magical tales to them, stretching their imaginations to the limit, knowing that they too wished, as I did once, that they had a magical tree, with different lands on the top every few days, and that they could go too. Anyone know where I'm leading with this tale yet?
I'm barely into the story and the peals of laughter start. From the moment I introduce Jo, Bessie and Fanny to the children. USA - are you sniggering? Well if you are, I can tell you that UK over there, with her hands over her face shaking her head - she ain't laughing! UK is mortified. Because it might be slang for 'butt' where you're from, but where I'm from? It's a slang term for a lady's... nether regions. Vagina. Is everyone cringing from the same hymn sheet? Good.
I press on, unabashed. I tried for ten minutes, ten whole minutes, to get past this issue. In the end, they were crying with mirth, I was crying with frustration.
Daughter: Mum? Why did they call her that name? It's a swear word
Me: It's not a swear word, it's slang for... you know... girls... twinkles (our family name of choice for... you know... fannies)
Son 2: Still, it's not nice really, the author should have given more thought to it (You think?)
The only small mercy was, that I didn't get past this issue for their cousin to be introduced in the sequel. This is their cousin Dick, by the way. That would have been seven shades of fun! Seemingly now, Jo, Bessie and Fanny are now Jo, Beth and Frannie - and cousin Dick? He's now Rick. I think I may need to invest in a later reprint...
Mr G had another one of his moments whilst out shopping the other day. Wheeling the trolley to the car to pack the shopping into the bags. He stops, shaking his head.
Mr G: Just look at that. Look! *points at car boot*
Me: What?
Mr G: Bloody swan shit all over the car!
Me: Oh no! Now you'll still not have to clean it, ever! And by swan, you mean...
Him: Seagull
Me: I'm putting you in a home.
Mr G: Look at that boat in the water fishing for shamrocks (cockles)
Mr G: *Looking over my shoulder while giving me a hug* What are they for? Those on there.
Me: Mushrooms?
Mr G: Yes, mushrooms. *Dissolves into fits of laughter* Glad you told me what they were called, I was going to say micronuts
Mr G: *Helping me keep my shopping* And how exactly are you cooking this aborigine? (aubergine)
Mr G: *Singing along to the radio* 'Love lift us up where we belong. Where the eagles fly...'
Who is this singing with Jennifer Warnes again? Bill Sykes? No it's not Bill Sykes.
Me: Who's Bill Sykes?
Mr G: Who is it then?
Me: Joe Cocker?
Mr G: Oh. Oh yeah, Bill Sykes was from Oliver Twist.
Me: Shut up!
Mr G: Shell, if I ever get to the stage that I'm crapping myself and peeing myself. Euthanasia.
Me: Ok.
Mr G: Although... *Looks at me* Best not, or we'd have killed you off two years ago, wouldn't we?
In the car, driving to the supermarket, and we're listening to a Four Tops CD on the stereo. My favourite song of theirs comes on, Walk Away Renée. If you're not familiar with it, it's quite a sad, heart-wrenching song. So I turn up the volume a little, and start belting it out.
Me: 'Just walk away Renée... You won't see me follow you back home. The empty sidewalks on my block...'
Mr G: *Interrupts* What did he sing then? After 'Just walk away Renée'?
Me: You won't see me follow you back home?
Mr G: Oh. That's what it was. I've been singing the wrong words then, for years.
Me: Well, as far as I'm concerned it's pretty obvious what he's singing.
*Pause*
Me: Why? What did you think he was singing?
Mr G: *Shakes head*
Me: Go on. I won't laugh...
Mr G: Just walk away Renée... You won't see me zabadoobadoh...
Now, I've had four children. And let me tell you, after 9 months of pregnancy - pelvic floor exercises weren't high on my list of things to do. Alcohol was. If they'd been called 'pelvic floor pastries' or 'pelvic floor cheesecake', I may have been more inclined. Twas the inclusion of the word 'exercise' that alienated them for me. My midwife's warning that I'd end up 'leaking like an 80 year old woman' whenever I sneezed, coughed, laughed or farted was no false prophecy. And when your husband comes out with the word 'zabadoobadoh' - attributing it to the great Levi Stubbs? I think I did all four simultaneously. And then wet myself.
Mr G hasn't been feeling very well, he's been having bad headaches and finally went to visit the Doctor. I had thought they'd sounded like migraines, but from my previous experience of them, there was a brief respite from migraine. This was permanent. The Doctor had the nurse take blood, made an appointment to see someone at the hospital (Ladies! Are your men like this? See WHO at the hospital? Brain surgeon? Cleaner? Midwife? Who? Whaddaya mean you 'didn't ask? Didn't listen more like!) ask'! Sent him back with migraine tablets and Valium. They gave Mr G... Valium. Regular readers, are you getting the enormity of this? Mr G. Valium. Oh, the smile that spread over my face... However my husband didn't understand Valium.
Mr G: Can I take one now?
Me: If you want to sleep at 11.30 am, and not be able to drive again today, sure.
Mr G: Will they make me sleepy?
Me: Are you kidding me?
Mr G: I thought Valium made people hyper?
Me: So the logic in giving Valium to people before minor surgery and going on aeroplanes would therefore be... what?
Mr G has been on top form this week. If you're relatively new to the blog, let me explain that Mr G has a way of confusing words - utterly innocently. If he was a computer, I'd be formatting him and replacing Windows 95 with Windows 7. Something has corrupted in his head over the last couple of years. It's like his inner Dictionary and Thesaurus only contain three pages. And even they are wrong.
Mr G and Son 2 watching some arty programme trying to figure out what the big floor picture was.
Son 2: It's one of those Jack things.
Mr G: What?
Son 2: Like a Jack. You know. A King Clown.
Mr G: *Guffaws and turns around to walk into kitchen* A King Clown? It's a JASPER you bloody idiot.
Me: A wha'? A 'Jasper'?
Mr G: What are they?
Me: JESTERS?
Mr G: *Doubled up laughing* And there was me calling him a 'bloody idiot'.
Mr G and myself lying in bed this morning. Discussing his constipation, as you do. Oh he'll love me, but this is too funny not to share.
Mr G: I might have to take a little yellow pill. I've not been in two days.
Me: Hmmmm. You took co-codamol yesterday for pain, probably that's what has done it.
Mr G: I need to find some foilage.
Me: Why? Are you crapping outdoors?
Mr G: No! In my diet!
Me: *Puzzled* *Penny drops* And by foilage you mean fibre, I take it? And even if you were right, it's foliage not foilage.
*Both laughing til we cry*
Me: Well, you could have some Fruit and Foilage for breakfast...
Mr G: Thank God it wasn't down to me to compile dictionaries. Shakespeare and Dickens would be screwed wouldn't they?
Me: Yeah. Can you imagine. 'Forsooth! My court Jasper is truly the funniest' Hahahahahaha.
Me: Are you signing up for this netball class after school, daughter? I hate netball. Hate, hate, hate it. I was awful at it in school. *Ponders* But then I was awful at everything sporty at school.
Mr G: You'll be ok, daughter, you're tall enough for it.
(I am 5 ft 2 inches, daughter is nearly as tall as me, maybe 5ft 1 - and she's only 10).
Daughter: People at school say I'm a midget.
Me: You're not! You're nearly as tall as me!
Daughter: I know, right? So I said that I was nearly as tall as my Mum, and they said to me 'Your Mum must be a Hobbit then'.
Me: What did you say to that?
Daughter: Well, she's got the hairy feet for it...
Me: What can I do with prawns?
Mr G: Goldfish bowl? Aquarium?
Monday morning, getting ready for school...
Son 3: Can we go to the park after school?
Mr G: No. No we can't.
(Methinks - harsh. But... question was aimed at Daddy, not wanting to undermine parental responsibility...)
Son 3: Why not?
Mr G: Hmm. Let's see. What was it you called me last night? Before you flounced up to bed in a temper? What was it again? Oh yes. A drama queen...
(Methinks - Oh Stephen, grow up! He's 6! And for the record, you are privy to the occasional RADA moment...)
Mr G:... and an arsehole.
(Methinks - Fair enough then...)
I won a bondage kit in a competition. That conversation went like this.
Me: I've won a bondage kit.
Mr G: I'm too old for this kind of shit.
Me: We'll see.
Son 3: Mum? Are girls the same as boys?
Me: Yes. Well... *thinks - this is going to lead to nether region discussion* ... we all have two eyes, ears, a heart, legs, arms
Son 3: But girls have had their winkles chopped off?
Me: Not chopped off... we just didn't... grow them... (GROW THEM?)
Son 3: Yeah, you have the volcanoes instead.
Me: Volcanoes?
Son 3: Yes. Girls twinkles look like volcanoes. Upside down.
Mr G went to the dentist to be told, at the age of 51, that he has an overbite, and he was measured for a mouthguard. I laughed.
Mr G: I have to wear it for a couple of hours each day.
Me: Will it shut you up?
Mr G: If it does, I'm getting you measured for one.
I asked for that.
Mr G: I saw shall remain unnamed baby burglar yesterday.
Me: WHAT????
Mr G: Sunbathing, I meant, not babysitting.
Me: You didn't say babysitting. You said baby burglar.
Mr G: Did I? What the hell does that mean?
Me: Well, if you don't know honey... not much hope of me knowing, is there?
While we were in Bangor yesterday, the air was full of what looked like white fluff. I asked him what it all was as we were driving into Aldi car park.
Mr G: You know. *Holds something imaginary up to his lips* 'One o'clocks'. *Blows* One o'clock, two o'clock... *Glances at me* You're going to tell me they're not called that now, aren't you?
Me: Dandelions...
Mr G: I call them 'one o'clocks'...
And last night in bed, just as we're both dropping off to sleep...
Mr G: I know what we forgot to buy yesterday.
Me: What?
Mr G: Sun juice. Not juice. What's the word... *struggles for about 30 seconds* Lotion.
Me: Sun juice? Will you remember this in the morning, so I can blog it? Or do I just get up and write it down in case I forget?
Mr G: No *silence* I'm just going to stop talking altogether. When I get my mouthguard, that's it. I'm going to keep it in forever.
Mr G has his mouthguard. Oh yes he does.
Mr G: Give me a kith.
Me: No. Eeeeeeeeeew. Go away. No tongues then. Just on the lips.
Mr G: Awwww! Jutht my luck ithn't it. Thingth like thith alwayth happen to me. I can't even thay my own name. Thtephen.
I wet myself laughing - he told me to 'Pith off'.
Mr G High on Drugs #1
Mr G: So, the Doctor said he's referring me to the Time Team.
Me: Cool. Be nice waking up to find Baldrick at the foot of your bed. Waiting to excavate your hole...
Speaking of excavating holes... (I'm on fire tonight...) - not for the faint hearted...
Mr G High on Drugs #2
Mr G: (ranting) I've had four fingers shoved up my bum. What for? Hmmmm? What the hell for? Hasn't eased my pain, has it? Hasn't achieved anything, has it? Well, except for giving me a bloody hard on when he found my G Spot...
Me: FOUR FINGERS?? Stephen, that wasn't a rectal examination, sweetheart, that was sexual assault. That's one digit off a fisting...
Mr G High on Drugs #3
Mr G: I've had morphine and I've had tramadol. But the thing is, they're still giving me bloody cyanide. No, not cyanide... Pastry! No, it's not pastry either. What word am I looking for?
Me: Paracetamol?
Mr G: Paracetamol.
Son 2 having sex education at school
Me: Soooooooooooooooo. Son 2. Did you learn anything today that you didn't already know?
Son 2: Yes. Before, I used to think that you made babies by the man, sticking his penis into the woman's butt... but now I know that the man sticks his penis into the woman's, you know... penis.
Son 3 broke his wrist and he moidered Mr G for about an hour, that if he had broken it, could he have a blue plaster cast. Mr G told him that if there was blue as an option, yes. So, son 3 is x rayed, he's definitely broken his wrist and is taken to the plaster room. The nurse asked him what colour cast he wants. He umms and aahs, and the nurse goes through all the colours; Red, Yellow, Camouflage, Pink, Navy, Green, Black, White... and he decides to have red. Mr G asked him if he was sure. He'd been going on for ages about wanting blue. He is determined. He wants red.
So when Mr G gets home, he's relaying this tale to me. Son 3 pipes up from nowhere...
Son 3: I chose red because there wasn't any blue.
Mr G: Yes there was.
Son 3: No, there wasn't.
Mr G: There was, son 3.
Son 3: Dad, there wasn't. There was red. Yellow. Camouflage. Pink. Navy Green. Black...
Mr G: Whoa! Navy Green? Did you really just say the words Navy Green? She said Navy. Comma. Green. Two separate colours?
Son 3: Ohhhhhhhhhhhh... Right.
Me: Tit.
So, yesterday I find myself wearing a very dressy pink and black top, with beaded embellishment, and black and white checked leggings. I looked like a cross between a drag queen and a monochrome Rupert the Bear. Mr G raised an eyebrow at me as I walked past. It was the only thing this ensemble was going to raise in any man...
Mr G: What are you doing?
Mr G: You know when I get older...
Me: Yes...
Mr G: And if I die before you...
Me: (*thinks* Where is this going? Please don't grieve me forever? Don't spend the rest of your life alone? It's ok to love again? Er... no...)
Mr G: Make sure you bury me in shorts and a vest, because I'm getting my money's worth out of these tattoos...
Me: I ran. *I shake my head* I actually ran.
Mr G: I know. You've gone from Mo Slater to Mo Farah overnight.
Me: *silence for a few moments as this sentence registers* Which Mo Slater do you mean?
Mr G: *quickly* Little. Little Mo.
Both: Good save, Grundy. Good save.
*Silence for a few minutes*
Mr G: Thank fuck there was a little one...
Me: That nurse said, who assessed you in triage.
Son 3: Who?
Me: That nurse.
Son 3: What nurse?
Me: The male nurse you saw, who cut your pants off!
Son 3: Huh? He's a nurse? Is he allowed to be a nurse?
Me: Yes...
Son 3: *pauses* So... women can be... Doctors?
Me: Yes! We've got the vote too!
Son 3: That's not nice, is it? Throwing your brother into a portal?
Me: Well, depends which brother you mean, doesn't it?
Son 3: *pauses* If you threw David (my brother) into a portal, would his head get stuck?
Son 3: Touch my Ronaldo aftershave and I'll bicycle kick you like he did against Juventus that time.
Starting from 2012...
Son 2: Mum?
Me: Yes?
Son 2: Do you know the little baby Jesus?
Me: Yes.
Son 2: Was Mary married to two men at the same time?
Me: No sweetheart, just Joseph.
Son 2: Oh. So, was she cheating on Joseph with God?
Me: Er, no, she wasn't cheating sweetheart.
Son 2: But God is Jesus's father.
Me: Yes. God put Jesus in Mary's belly, I suppose you could call it by magic.
Son 2: Ah. So Jesus is like a genie then? Only you didn't have to rub Mary's belly for him to come out and he came out the normal way?
Me: No, Jesus isn't like a genie. Nothing like a genie. More toast?
* * *
The one where I very mistakenly decide to read my 1980's copies of Enid Blyton's Enchanted Wood to my children...
All three children on the bottom bunk, gathered round, snug in their pyjamas, ready to make a start on 'The Enchanted Wood'. I could still remember Moonface and his slippery slip slide from his house to the bottom of the tree, Silky the fairy with the long golden hair. Watsisname. The quite deaf Saucepan Man. And of course, the Angry Pixie. As if it was yesterday. A time of innocence and wonder... I picture myself reading to my three angelic, pyjamaed angels, cheeks rosy, eyes wide as I relay these magical tales to them, stretching their imaginations to the limit, knowing that they too wished, as I did once, that they had a magical tree, with different lands on the top every few days, and that they could go too. Anyone know where I'm leading with this tale yet?
I'm barely into the story and the peals of laughter start. From the moment I introduce Jo, Bessie and Fanny to the children. USA - are you sniggering? Well if you are, I can tell you that UK over there, with her hands over her face shaking her head - she ain't laughing! UK is mortified. Because it might be slang for 'butt' where you're from, but where I'm from? It's a slang term for a lady's... nether regions. Vagina. Is everyone cringing from the same hymn sheet? Good.
I press on, unabashed. I tried for ten minutes, ten whole minutes, to get past this issue. In the end, they were crying with mirth, I was crying with frustration.
Daughter: Mum? Why did they call her that name? It's a swear word
Me: It's not a swear word, it's slang for... you know... girls... twinkles (our family name of choice for... you know... fannies)
Son 2: Still, it's not nice really, the author should have given more thought to it (You think?)
The only small mercy was, that I didn't get past this issue for their cousin to be introduced in the sequel. This is their cousin Dick, by the way. That would have been seven shades of fun! Seemingly now, Jo, Bessie and Fanny are now Jo, Beth and Frannie - and cousin Dick? He's now Rick. I think I may need to invest in a later reprint...
* * *
Mr G had another one of his moments whilst out shopping the other day. Wheeling the trolley to the car to pack the shopping into the bags. He stops, shaking his head.
Mr G: Just look at that. Look! *points at car boot*
Me: What?
Mr G: Bloody swan shit all over the car!
Me: Oh no! Now you'll still not have to clean it, ever! And by swan, you mean...
Him: Seagull
Me: I'm putting you in a home.
* * *
Mr G: Look at that boat in the water fishing for shamrocks (cockles)
Mr G: *Looking over my shoulder while giving me a hug* What are they for? Those on there.
Me: Mushrooms?
Mr G: Yes, mushrooms. *Dissolves into fits of laughter* Glad you told me what they were called, I was going to say micronuts
Mr G: *Helping me keep my shopping* And how exactly are you cooking this aborigine? (aubergine)
Mr G: *Singing along to the radio* 'Love lift us up where we belong. Where the eagles fly...'
Who is this singing with Jennifer Warnes again? Bill Sykes? No it's not Bill Sykes.
Me: Who's Bill Sykes?
Mr G: Who is it then?
Me: Joe Cocker?
Mr G: Oh. Oh yeah, Bill Sykes was from Oliver Twist.
Me: Shut up!
* * *
Mr G: Those flowers *nods towards decaying, almost 2 week old bunch of roses bought for anniversary* in Waitrose tonight. £15. FIFTEEN POUNDS!
Me: Tsk.
Mr G: The same ones as those. FIFTEEN pounds. Good job those have lasted til Valentines Day.
Me: Lasted? They're crispy?
Mr G: They're fine.
Me: They're crispy!
Mr G: Pot Pourri.
Me: Pardon?
Mr G: Pot Pourri. Home made. Petals off. In a dish. Have we got a nice dish? Always thinking. You don't have to thank me.
Me: Tsk.
Mr G: The same ones as those. FIFTEEN pounds. Good job those have lasted til Valentines Day.
Me: Lasted? They're crispy?
Mr G: They're fine.
Me: They're crispy!
Mr G: Pot Pourri.
Me: Pardon?
Mr G: Pot Pourri. Home made. Petals off. In a dish. Have we got a nice dish? Always thinking. You don't have to thank me.
* * *
Me: *Under boys bunk beds with vacuum nozzle, in most vulnerable position possible* Can you turn me on please?
Mr G: Mmmmmmmmm... I can...
Me: I meant the hoover, touch me and I'll break your fingers
Mr G: Mmmmmmmmm... I can...
Me: I meant the hoover, touch me and I'll break your fingers
* * *
Daughter: Son 3 has been telling his friends that you've got a flappy bum.
Me: What? What the hell is that? Who did you say that to?
Son 3: Child A, Child B, Child C...
Me: Seven? Seven of them?
Son 3: Don't worry, they didn't laugh. Well, only a little bit.
* * *
Rastamouse. For those not familiar with it, this is a CBeebies programme, Rastamouse and his gang of little mice have a reggae group 'Da Easy Crew' and also solve mysteries. The mice speak with a patois. And so...
Daughter: Mum? What does 'irie' mean?
Me: Well, it sort of means 'alright' or 'ok'. It's a positive term.
Son 2: *Looking at me in awe* Mum! Can you speak 'mouse'?
Me: Erm...
Daughter: Mum? What does 'irie' mean?
Me: Well, it sort of means 'alright' or 'ok'. It's a positive term.
Son 2: *Looking at me in awe* Mum! Can you speak 'mouse'?
Me: Erm...
* * *
Me: Ok.
Mr G: Although... *Looks at me* Best not, or we'd have killed you off two years ago, wouldn't we?
* * *
In the car, driving to the supermarket, and we're listening to a Four Tops CD on the stereo. My favourite song of theirs comes on, Walk Away Renée. If you're not familiar with it, it's quite a sad, heart-wrenching song. So I turn up the volume a little, and start belting it out.
Me: 'Just walk away Renée... You won't see me follow you back home. The empty sidewalks on my block...'
Mr G: *Interrupts* What did he sing then? After 'Just walk away Renée'?
Me: You won't see me follow you back home?
Mr G: Oh. That's what it was. I've been singing the wrong words then, for years.
Me: Well, as far as I'm concerned it's pretty obvious what he's singing.
*Pause*
Me: Why? What did you think he was singing?
Mr G: *Shakes head*
Me: Go on. I won't laugh...
Mr G: Just walk away Renée... You won't see me zabadoobadoh...
Now, I've had four children. And let me tell you, after 9 months of pregnancy - pelvic floor exercises weren't high on my list of things to do. Alcohol was. If they'd been called 'pelvic floor pastries' or 'pelvic floor cheesecake', I may have been more inclined. Twas the inclusion of the word 'exercise' that alienated them for me. My midwife's warning that I'd end up 'leaking like an 80 year old woman' whenever I sneezed, coughed, laughed or farted was no false prophecy. And when your husband comes out with the word 'zabadoobadoh' - attributing it to the great Levi Stubbs? I think I did all four simultaneously. And then wet myself.
* * *
Mr G hasn't been feeling very well, he's been having bad headaches and finally went to visit the Doctor. I had thought they'd sounded like migraines, but from my previous experience of them, there was a brief respite from migraine. This was permanent. The Doctor had the nurse take blood, made an appointment to see someone at the hospital (Ladies! Are your men like this? See WHO at the hospital? Brain surgeon? Cleaner? Midwife? Who? Whaddaya mean you 'didn't ask? Didn't listen more like!) ask'! Sent him back with migraine tablets and Valium. They gave Mr G... Valium. Regular readers, are you getting the enormity of this? Mr G. Valium. Oh, the smile that spread over my face... However my husband didn't understand Valium.
Mr G: Can I take one now?
Me: If you want to sleep at 11.30 am, and not be able to drive again today, sure.
Mr G: Will they make me sleepy?
Me: Are you kidding me?
Mr G: I thought Valium made people hyper?
Me: So the logic in giving Valium to people before minor surgery and going on aeroplanes would therefore be... what?
* * *
Mr G has been on top form this week. If you're relatively new to the blog, let me explain that Mr G has a way of confusing words - utterly innocently. If he was a computer, I'd be formatting him and replacing Windows 95 with Windows 7. Something has corrupted in his head over the last couple of years. It's like his inner Dictionary and Thesaurus only contain three pages. And even they are wrong.
Mr G and Son 2 watching some arty programme trying to figure out what the big floor picture was.
Son 2: It's one of those Jack things.
Mr G: What?
Son 2: Like a Jack. You know. A King Clown.
Mr G: *Guffaws and turns around to walk into kitchen* A King Clown? It's a JASPER you bloody idiot.
Me: A wha'? A 'Jasper'?
Mr G: What are they?
Me: JESTERS?
Mr G: *Doubled up laughing* And there was me calling him a 'bloody idiot'.
* * *
Mr G and myself lying in bed this morning. Discussing his constipation, as you do. Oh he'll love me, but this is too funny not to share.
Mr G: I might have to take a little yellow pill. I've not been in two days.
Me: Hmmmm. You took co-codamol yesterday for pain, probably that's what has done it.
Mr G: I need to find some foilage.
Me: Why? Are you crapping outdoors?
Mr G: No! In my diet!
Me: *Puzzled* *Penny drops* And by foilage you mean fibre, I take it? And even if you were right, it's foliage not foilage.
*Both laughing til we cry*
Me: Well, you could have some Fruit and Foilage for breakfast...
Mr G: Thank God it wasn't down to me to compile dictionaries. Shakespeare and Dickens would be screwed wouldn't they?
Me: Yeah. Can you imagine. 'Forsooth! My court Jasper is truly the funniest' Hahahahahaha.
* * *
Me: Are you signing up for this netball class after school, daughter? I hate netball. Hate, hate, hate it. I was awful at it in school. *Ponders* But then I was awful at everything sporty at school.
Mr G: You'll be ok, daughter, you're tall enough for it.
(I am 5 ft 2 inches, daughter is nearly as tall as me, maybe 5ft 1 - and she's only 10).
Daughter: People at school say I'm a midget.
Me: You're not! You're nearly as tall as me!
Daughter: I know, right? So I said that I was nearly as tall as my Mum, and they said to me 'Your Mum must be a Hobbit then'.
Me: What did you say to that?
Daughter: Well, she's got the hairy feet for it...
* * *
Mr G: Goldfish bowl? Aquarium?
* * *
Monday morning, getting ready for school...
Son 3: Can we go to the park after school?
Mr G: No. No we can't.
(Methinks - harsh. But... question was aimed at Daddy, not wanting to undermine parental responsibility...)
Son 3: Why not?
Mr G: Hmm. Let's see. What was it you called me last night? Before you flounced up to bed in a temper? What was it again? Oh yes. A drama queen...
(Methinks - Oh Stephen, grow up! He's 6! And for the record, you are privy to the occasional RADA moment...)
Mr G:... and an arsehole.
(Methinks - Fair enough then...)
* * *
I won a bondage kit in a competition. That conversation went like this.
Me: I've won a bondage kit.
Mr G: I'm too old for this kind of shit.
Me: We'll see.
* * *
Son 3: Mum? Are girls the same as boys?
Me: Yes. Well... *thinks - this is going to lead to nether region discussion* ... we all have two eyes, ears, a heart, legs, arms
Son 3: But girls have had their winkles chopped off?
Me: Not chopped off... we just didn't... grow them... (GROW THEM?)
Son 3: Yeah, you have the volcanoes instead.
Me: Volcanoes?
Son 3: Yes. Girls twinkles look like volcanoes. Upside down.
* * *
Mr G went to the dentist to be told, at the age of 51, that he has an overbite, and he was measured for a mouthguard. I laughed.
Mr G: I have to wear it for a couple of hours each day.
Me: Will it shut you up?
Mr G: If it does, I'm getting you measured for one.
I asked for that.
* * *
Mr G: I saw shall remain unnamed baby burglar yesterday.
Me: WHAT????
Mr G: Sunbathing, I meant, not babysitting.
Me: You didn't say babysitting. You said baby burglar.
Mr G: Did I? What the hell does that mean?
Me: Well, if you don't know honey... not much hope of me knowing, is there?
* * *
While we were in Bangor yesterday, the air was full of what looked like white fluff. I asked him what it all was as we were driving into Aldi car park.
Mr G: You know. *Holds something imaginary up to his lips* 'One o'clocks'. *Blows* One o'clock, two o'clock... *Glances at me* You're going to tell me they're not called that now, aren't you?
Me: Dandelions...
Mr G: I call them 'one o'clocks'...
* * *
Mr G: I know what we forgot to buy yesterday.
Me: What?
Mr G: Sun juice. Not juice. What's the word... *struggles for about 30 seconds* Lotion.
Me: Sun juice? Will you remember this in the morning, so I can blog it? Or do I just get up and write it down in case I forget?
Mr G: No *silence* I'm just going to stop talking altogether. When I get my mouthguard, that's it. I'm going to keep it in forever.
* * *
Mr G has his mouthguard. Oh yes he does.
Mr G: Give me a kith.
Me: No. Eeeeeeeeeew. Go away. No tongues then. Just on the lips.
Mr G: Awwww! Jutht my luck ithn't it. Thingth like thith alwayth happen to me. I can't even thay my own name. Thtephen.
I wet myself laughing - he told me to 'Pith off'.
* * *
Son 3: *Runs in from school* Mum! Mum! Great news! I'm going to be learning how to play the trumpet!
Me: *Gritted teeth and fake smile* That's WONDERFUL! Now, has Mummy got any wine. It's 5 o'clock somewhere...
* * *
Son 3: I know what I'm going to be in the Christmas concert. A monkey.
Mr G: Ah, a cheeky monkey eating a banana?
Son 3: Well, no, because I don't like bananas. So I'm going to be a vegetarian monkey.
Mr G: Ah, a cheeky monkey eating a banana?
Son 3: Well, no, because I don't like bananas. So I'm going to be a vegetarian monkey.
* * *
Son 3: Dad, how old was Grandad when he died?
Mr G: 69.
Son 3: So, did he die of old age?
Mr G: No, he had an illness called cancer. Have you heard of that?
Son 3: Hmmm. I've heard of it, but I don't know what it is. I only know what one illness is.
Mr G: What's that then?
Son 3: Diarrhoea. I had it once, and I shit myself twice.
Mr G: 69.
Son 3: So, did he die of old age?
Mr G: No, he had an illness called cancer. Have you heard of that?
Son 3: Hmmm. I've heard of it, but I don't know what it is. I only know what one illness is.
Mr G: What's that then?
Son 3: Diarrhoea. I had it once, and I shit myself twice.
* * *
Me: Our dongle is a F5D7050 isn't it?
(To be met with a look of abject horror and mild verbal abuse...)
Mr G: Oh my God. Rain Man? How the bloody hell do you remember what the product code of the dongle is? I don't even remember what I did yesterday?
Me: I keep telling you I have ASD. You keep thinking I'm joking.
(To be met with a look of abject horror and mild verbal abuse...)
Mr G: Oh my God. Rain Man? How the bloody hell do you remember what the product code of the dongle is? I don't even remember what I did yesterday?
Me: I keep telling you I have ASD. You keep thinking I'm joking.
* * *
Mr G: They asked me for a stool and urine sample, so I just gave them my underpants...
* * *
Yesterday he went to the out of hours Doctors in the hospital. He came home looking a little... subdued?
Me: How are you, baby?
Mr G: I've been violated anally. How was your morning?
Me: How are you, baby?
Mr G: I've been violated anally. How was your morning?
* * *
Mr G: She asked me on a scale of one to ten, how bad the pain was? I told her 'worse than childbirth'. In retrospect, I now realise that I should have kept that opinion to myself, or at least until after she'd shoved her finger up my ass. 'Wiggle your toes Mr Grundy! You're not relaxed enough!'
* * *
Mr G: Awwwwww you're beautiful. Look at you lying there with your little shrunken head.
Me: What!? My 'little shrunken head'? What the hell are you going on about?
Mr G: *Grabs my face and squashes it up*
Me: Anyway, I haven't got a little head, I've got a massive head.
Mr G: No you haven't. Well, no... you have got a massive head but you've only got a tiny face.
Me: What!? My 'little shrunken head'? What the hell are you going on about?
Mr G: *Grabs my face and squashes it up*
Me: Anyway, I haven't got a little head, I've got a massive head.
Mr G: No you haven't. Well, no... you have got a massive head but you've only got a tiny face.
* * *
Son 3 went into April Fools Day very ambitiously. Plotting away on the 31st March.
Son 3: Have we got a bowl?
Me: What do you want a bowl for?
Son 3: And some rope. Or string.
Me: What for?
Son 3: Well, you fill the bowl with water, and tie rope around it, and then put it on a door, and then when Dad...
Me: Whoa! No way! Think of something that isn't going to soak your father. Keep your thoughts dry.
Son 3: (Giggles and mutters) I'm keeping my thoughts moist. Very moist.
Son 3: Have we got a bowl?
Me: What do you want a bowl for?
Son 3: And some rope. Or string.
Me: What for?
Son 3: Well, you fill the bowl with water, and tie rope around it, and then put it on a door, and then when Dad...
Me: Whoa! No way! Think of something that isn't going to soak your father. Keep your thoughts dry.
Son 3: (Giggles and mutters) I'm keeping my thoughts moist. Very moist.
* * *
We had our Easter roast on Saturday as I thought my guests would be leaving early on Sunday, and everyone except Mr G and I had a McDonalds for lunch on Sunday. Traditional! So Mr G and I decided we'd have our takeaway last night, as I was all cooked out. I ordered it online. At 4.20 pm. Asked him what time we should have it delivered. Thinking as soon as possible. 'About 6.' says 'The Boss' (yeah, lol). I died a little inside. And ordered it for 6.
Come 5 pm, well, I could have eaten a buttered brick, I was famished. So I make a fairly innocuous statement.
Come 5 pm, well, I could have eaten a buttered brick, I was famished. So I make a fairly innocuous statement.
Me: What possessed you to say 6 pm for dinner? I am soooooooo hungry! I could eat my own head!
(The moment those words leave my lips, I mentally kick myself. I just know...)
(The moment those words leave my lips, I mentally kick myself. I just know...)
Mr G: *sniggers* What a feast that would be! Bloody hell!
Me: Shut up...
Mr G: Well, it is Easter after all...
Me: Stephen, I'm warning you... (He knows he's in trouble then, when Ste becomes Stephen, full title...)
Mr G: Hey Jesus? What do you want for your last supper? Ooooooooh we'll have Michelle's head please. It's big enough for us all. Oh, and put the leftovers in a doggy bag, I'll be back on Sunday after all.
Me: You're going to hell.
* * *
Mr G is in hospital...
Mr G: I still haven't had a poo but you could fly a kite with the wind I had.
Me: Awwww baby.
Mr G: I asked the Doctor for something to help me go and he said he'll schedule an enema. I said no, I'll have Nitromors (which for those who don't know, is a paint stripper...)
Me: Lactulose?
Mr G: That's the one. Anyway, when you get here, I need you to help me put some clean shorts on and while you're there, would you baby wipe my ring for me? I couldn't reach properly with my little arms, I was in too much pain to stretch.
Me: You can *expletive* off. I'm not going anywhere near your ring! You haven't bathed since Wednesday!
Me: Awwww baby.
Mr G: I asked the Doctor for something to help me go and he said he'll schedule an enema. I said no, I'll have Nitromors (which for those who don't know, is a paint stripper...)
Me: Lactulose?
Mr G: That's the one. Anyway, when you get here, I need you to help me put some clean shorts on and while you're there, would you baby wipe my ring for me? I couldn't reach properly with my little arms, I was in too much pain to stretch.
Me: You can *expletive* off. I'm not going anywhere near your ring! You haven't bathed since Wednesday!
* * *
We spent today working on the inside of the summerhouse and it's looking lovely, we're both so pleased with it. It's a little bit him, and a little bit me. Mr G had this to say...
Me: It will do. It's fine. Nobody will notice. (Something was crooked).
Mr G: No, it won't do. I'll know. I'll do it again. That's just triggered my OMD off, that has.
OMD. You know, the 1980's New Wave, synth-pop group? My husband has that, and today, it's been triggered...
Me: It will do. It's fine. Nobody will notice. (Something was crooked).
Mr G: No, it won't do. I'll know. I'll do it again. That's just triggered my OMD off, that has.
OMD. You know, the 1980's New Wave, synth-pop group? My husband has that, and today, it's been triggered...
* * *
Mr G on slow release morphine, Day 3...
He's currently sleeping in the shed. Most sense I've had out of him was this sentence...
Mr G: Is that your thing coming out of your thingle there?
Me: Er... I genuinely don't know how to answer that?
Mr G: *Half sobs and moves in for a hug* I don't want to be a crackhead...
Mr G: Is that your thing coming out of your thingle there?
Me: Er... I genuinely don't know how to answer that?
Mr G: *Half sobs and moves in for a hug* I don't want to be a crackhead...
* * *
Mr G: Look Adam, in that field. An Alpaca! *pause* Oh wait. No it's not. It's two sheep, sleeping...
* * *
Mr G: What's circumference?
Me: *wondering if this is a trick question, as per* Erm...
Mr G: This is probably the wrong word. But aren't onions circumference? It's not the right word but you know what I mean.
Me: *deadpan* Seemingly not?
Mr G: You know, they go with anything, don't they? Steak, cheese, salad...
Me: Versatile? Is that the word you're looking for? Versatile?
Mr G: Yes.
Me: *wondering if this is a trick question, as per* Erm...
Mr G: This is probably the wrong word. But aren't onions circumference? It's not the right word but you know what I mean.
Me: *deadpan* Seemingly not?
Mr G: You know, they go with anything, don't they? Steak, cheese, salad...
Me: Versatile? Is that the word you're looking for? Versatile?
Mr G: Yes.
* * *
Post op, lying in the dark in the living room...
Mr G: Thank you
Me: What for?
Mr G: Looking after me. Doing everything.
Me: It's only what I do anyway, isn't it?
Mr G: I know... But. What would I have done now, if I didn't have you to look after me?
Me: You'd have gone in a home.
Mr G: Yeah, one of those Clairvoyant homes.
Me: Convalescent?
Mr G: That's what I said?
Discussing the District Nurse's visit and Mr G's er... Current (lack of) hygiene issues...
Mr G: I'll have to be hosed down before she comes.
Me: I'll give you a strip wash in a bowl if you like?
Mr G: Maybe I could go for a shower?
Me: Are you meant to get the dressings wet?
Mr G: No...
Me: I'll do you in here then and get you dressed in clean clothes.
Daughter: Why are you going to be washing him?
Me: Well, his nether regions and the like... You know... Need a scrunchie and a threat of Lynx?
Daughter: *mutters* nether regions... Nether regions?
Me: You know... Down below?
We watch as the penny drops, and her look of confusion turns to abject disgust...
Daughter: Oh Mum, can't you just... baby wipe him or... something?
Well, being the dutiful wife I am, I can proudly say, I did not 'just baby wipe' the love of my life. However... I couldn't find a bowl in which to wash him in. So. I used a cat litter tray. We don't have a cat, by the way. Never have. Don't ask. I couldn't tell you. Welcome to my world.
* * *
Mr G High on Drugs #1
Mr G: So, the Doctor said he's referring me to the Time Team.
Me: Cool. Be nice waking up to find Baldrick at the foot of your bed. Waiting to excavate your hole...
Speaking of excavating holes... (I'm on fire tonight...) - not for the faint hearted...
Mr G High on Drugs #2
Mr G: (ranting) I've had four fingers shoved up my bum. What for? Hmmmm? What the hell for? Hasn't eased my pain, has it? Hasn't achieved anything, has it? Well, except for giving me a bloody hard on when he found my G Spot...
Me: FOUR FINGERS?? Stephen, that wasn't a rectal examination, sweetheart, that was sexual assault. That's one digit off a fisting...
Mr G High on Drugs #3
Mr G: I've had morphine and I've had tramadol. But the thing is, they're still giving me bloody cyanide. No, not cyanide... Pastry! No, it's not pastry either. What word am I looking for?
Me: Paracetamol?
Mr G: Paracetamol.
* * *
Son 2 having sex education at school
Me: Soooooooooooooooo. Son 2. Did you learn anything today that you didn't already know?
Son 2: Yes. Before, I used to think that you made babies by the man, sticking his penis into the woman's butt... but now I know that the man sticks his penis into the woman's, you know... penis.
* * *
Son 3 broke his wrist and he moidered Mr G for about an hour, that if he had broken it, could he have a blue plaster cast. Mr G told him that if there was blue as an option, yes. So, son 3 is x rayed, he's definitely broken his wrist and is taken to the plaster room. The nurse asked him what colour cast he wants. He umms and aahs, and the nurse goes through all the colours; Red, Yellow, Camouflage, Pink, Navy, Green, Black, White... and he decides to have red. Mr G asked him if he was sure. He'd been going on for ages about wanting blue. He is determined. He wants red.
So when Mr G gets home, he's relaying this tale to me. Son 3 pipes up from nowhere...
Son 3: I chose red because there wasn't any blue.
Mr G: Yes there was.
Son 3: No, there wasn't.
Mr G: There was, son 3.
Son 3: Dad, there wasn't. There was red. Yellow. Camouflage. Pink. Navy Green. Black...
Mr G: Whoa! Navy Green? Did you really just say the words Navy Green? She said Navy. Comma. Green. Two separate colours?
Son 3: Ohhhhhhhhhhhh... Right.
Me: Tit.
* * *
Attempting to catch up with Hollyoaks, and Reenie McQueen is lying in bed, drunk.
Mr G: Oooooh look! Our bed!
Me: Huh? Oh yeah.
Mr G: Well, almost. Apart from the knobheads.
Me: The... knobheads? I've heard the McQueens called some names in my time but... knobheads?
Mr G: You know, those ball things.
Me: Bedknobs?
* * *
Mr G and the Duck Farts
Mr G: You're going to blog about this, aren't you?
Me: Yup. But how, exactly, I'm going to put it into words is beyond me.
To set the scene. A warm Summer's evening in Devon. Mr G and I stroll hand in hand along the promenade towards the pier, the children running off ahead of us. The tide is high (but I'm holding on...) and we stop to watch a father and his children skimming stones into the sea. I steal a glance at Mr G, who has a steely, determined glint in his eye. Uh oh, I think to myself. Pissing contest ahoy. Or, there would be, but Competitive Dad is useless at skimming stones. So, how is he going to play this one?
Mr G wanders off, scrabbling around in the terracotta coloured sand and returns with a large pebble of similar colour. To our left, sat on the wall, a young couple are kissing and cuddling, completely oblivious to the drama about to unfold. I look at Mr G, expecting him to attempt to skim the stone into the sea. No. That would have been too easy. That's someone else's husband. What does mine do? Loudly shouts 'Duck Farts!' and hurls the stone up in the air. Yes, up in the air. Not at the water. Up. In. The. Air.
He must have one hell of a throw because it seemed to be up there an age. Mr G wore a wide eyed, open mouthed look that is normally reserved for Nicki Minaj videos. I looked at him. He looked at me. We both looked at the canoodling couple. The abject terror in his eyes was visible. Did we warn the young couple that one may end up with a large pebble embedded in their head? That their romantic evening stroll may end up with a trip to Casualty and stitches? We looked up, and this bloody stone is still coming down, spinning, almost in slow motion until it hits the ground between Mr G and I and the young couple with a huge thud, and splits in half. They jumped, shot us a filthy look, got up and walked away as quick as they could. Mr G looked sheepish, Caitlin stalked off ahead professing 'I don't know you'. And me? I was doubled over laughing all night. People were walking past me, laughing at me, laughing.
Later that evening, as I wiped away tears of mirth after another 'Duck Fart' related bout of laughter, I asked Mr G, just what the hell a Duck Fart was. Exactly.
Well. It appears that, if you throw a stone a certain way, it will land in the water without making a loud plop, and little bubbles will rise up to the surface. Like, when, apparently, a duck farts underwater. Hadn't I ever seen a duck fart underwater? Erm, no. I'm not joking. Welcome to my world.
* * *
So, yesterday I find myself wearing a very dressy pink and black top, with beaded embellishment, and black and white checked leggings. I looked like a cross between a drag queen and a monochrome Rupert the Bear. Mr G raised an eyebrow at me as I walked past. It was the only thing this ensemble was going to raise in any man...
Mr G: What are you doing?
Me: taking a break from gathering bits. Just check my emails... Delete, delete, delete, ooooh! Six fashion mistakes we're all making...
Mr G: *Looks me up and down* Seven... No. Make that eight. Your toenails and fingernails are painted a different colour.
Me: Shut it, Gok Wan.
* * *
Son 3: I enjoyed it, but it wasn't the best holiday I have had in Devon.
Me: Oh?
Son 3: Well, think about it. Caitlin had three migraines and spent hours in bed. Dad was really ill twice, and had to get a taxi back. Your foot swelled up and you couldn't walk. Some days it rained so hard we couldn't leave the flat. Dan was on the phone for days trying to sort out his Uni place. And I shit myself.
* * *
I made a start on the ironing 'pile' - pile, my arse, I needed crampons, a yak and a fecking Sherpa to tackle that bugger. Mr G was sat on the sofa, making noises about doing a bit in a minute. Hmmmm. So, after a few minutes of silence where he appears to be looking quite down, staring at the floor, he starts giggling.
Me: What??
Him: Vol au vent!
Me: Oh for f...
Him: I've been sat here looking at your big toe, it reminded me of something. Couldn't put my finger on it. It's a vol au vent! Look at it! Your left toe!
Me: Jesus...
* * *
And yesterday, sitting down for a rare moment with a coffee waiting for the children to arrive from school. Son 3 bursts through the door. He is all about the food, 'bout the food... While he's eating breakfast he wants to know what's for lunch and if possible, tea...
Son 3: What's that smell? Cod? Are we having cod for tea? I can smell cod. Yay!
Me: *stands up* Right that's me off for a shower...
Mr G: *patchwork quilt vibrating because he's laughing underneath it* Best have a bath too. And another shower after... to be sure...
* * *
Coming home after gym session, looking a tad sheepish
Mr G: Sam weighed me and I've put on 3 kilo in a fortnight...
Me: Oh dear. That's not very good.
Mr G: ...so I told her you were a feeder...
Me: You said what???
Mr G: ...so I told her you were a feeder...
Me: You said what???
* * *
Lying in bed...
Mr G: You know when I get older...
Me: Yes...
Mr G: And if I die before you...
Me: (*thinks* Where is this going? Please don't grieve me forever? Don't spend the rest of your life alone? It's ok to love again? Er... no...)
Mr G: Make sure you bury me in shorts and a vest, because I'm getting my money's worth out of these tattoos...
* * *
In bed. Don't ask where this came from. Drifting off to sleep...
Mr G: I'm not allowed ANYTHING...
Me: *jumps out of skin* WHAT????
Mr G: I'm not allowed a campervan. I'm not allowed to poo downstairs...
Me: *bewildered* No, you're not! You take 30 minutes per crap, there's no window or extractor fan in there, it's next to the kitchen and there's gaps in the doors. You're only allowed to poo in there when you've been operated on and can't walk far. But where the hell did that come from? Do you want to poo downstairs or something?
Mr G: Even if I wanted to, I can't now because of the treadmill. I can't luigi under it.
Me: What????
Mr G: I can't luigi under it.
Me: I still don't know what you mean, just go to sleep...
Mr G: That thing with the stick and you go under it.
Me: Limbo?
Mr G: I'm not allowed ANYTHING...
Me: *jumps out of skin* WHAT????
Mr G: I'm not allowed a campervan. I'm not allowed to poo downstairs...
Me: *bewildered* No, you're not! You take 30 minutes per crap, there's no window or extractor fan in there, it's next to the kitchen and there's gaps in the doors. You're only allowed to poo in there when you've been operated on and can't walk far. But where the hell did that come from? Do you want to poo downstairs or something?
Mr G: Even if I wanted to, I can't now because of the treadmill. I can't luigi under it.
Me: What????
Mr G: I can't luigi under it.
Me: I still don't know what you mean, just go to sleep...
Mr G: That thing with the stick and you go under it.
Me: Limbo?
* * *
And then there was his take on my periods, of course...
Me: *Looking for pity* I'm bleeding heavy...
Mr G: *sniggers* I know. You might want to stick a comma or full stop in that sentence.
Me: It's not funny, it hurts.
Mr G: No, I'm not having that. Look at that woman in that advert earlier. Clubbing til 5 am in the morning in white jeans. WHITE jeans? She didn't look in pain. And then the other one on the horse.
Me: Bollocks. I bet a man wrote that advert. There's no woman in their right mind would wear white jeans while on their period. And no sanitary towel on this planet worthy of that level of trust.
Five minutes elapse...
Mr G: If I buy you a pair of white jeans and a pony, will you stop moaning about your period every month?
Me: *Looking for pity* I'm bleeding heavy...
Mr G: *sniggers* I know. You might want to stick a comma or full stop in that sentence.
Me: It's not funny, it hurts.
Mr G: No, I'm not having that. Look at that woman in that advert earlier. Clubbing til 5 am in the morning in white jeans. WHITE jeans? She didn't look in pain. And then the other one on the horse.
Me: Bollocks. I bet a man wrote that advert. There's no woman in their right mind would wear white jeans while on their period. And no sanitary towel on this planet worthy of that level of trust.
Five minutes elapse...
Mr G: If I buy you a pair of white jeans and a pony, will you stop moaning about your period every month?
* * *
Son 2 came home from school after being on a school trip to a local butterfly farm. They also have meerkats. He burst through the door and after I asked if he'd had a nice time, if he'd seen the meerkats, he sat down and announced
Son 2: I know what a boner is.
I looked at Mr G and he at me. Looks of abject horror on our faces.
Son 2: There's this boy called 'shall remain unnamed' and when the meerkat came out, he had a boner.
Me: The meerkat?
Son 2: No, 'shall remain unnamed' did.
Me: Oh my God. Poor boy. Something like this could haunt him his whole school life. He'll be known as Meerkat Boner Boy or something. Were people taking the mick out of him?
Son 2: Yep.
Me: I hope you weren't. Poor boy.
Son 2: I was singing Michael Jackson parodies *bursts into song* 'Cos this is Bonerrrrrr, Boner night'. Oh and 'Do you want to have a Boner? It doesn't have to be a Boner' from Frozen.
Me: Son 2!
Mr G: *sweating from trying not to laugh*
Daughter: *drops to the floor*
Me: You make sure you apologise to that boy tomorrow.
* * *
Son 3: You know what I think I need in swimming? You know that guy that's in with us? I need him to just hold the end of my sausage...
Me: Whoa!
Daughter: *dies*
Son 2: *snort*
Mr G: Um...
Son 3: WHAT? You know my sausage, well, if he was just to hold it right at the very end...STOP LAUGHING, WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING ABOUT?
Me: What do you mean by 'sausage', sweetheart?
Son 3: You know, the float thing. The noodle.
Son 2: What colour sausage have you got?
Son 3: Well, you can have a pink sausage, a red sausage and a blue sausage. I've got a blue sausage because...
Mr G:— the water is cold?
Me: Sweetheart, you mustn't let anyone touch your sausage in swimming, ok?
Son 3: STOP IT!
Me: Whoa!
Daughter: *dies*
Son 2: *snort*
Mr G: Um...
Son 3: WHAT? You know my sausage, well, if he was just to hold it right at the very end...STOP LAUGHING, WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING ABOUT?
Me: What do you mean by 'sausage', sweetheart?
Son 3: You know, the float thing. The noodle.
Son 2: What colour sausage have you got?
Son 3: Well, you can have a pink sausage, a red sausage and a blue sausage. I've got a blue sausage because...
Mr G:— the water is cold?
Me: Sweetheart, you mustn't let anyone touch your sausage in swimming, ok?
Son 3: STOP IT!
* * *
At the opticians...
Son 3 didn't shut up. Helen (the optician) was laughing throughout. She asked him if he was going to pick new glasses and keep his old pair as a spare, or if he wanted his new lenses in his old frames.
Son 3: Can I have a monocle?
Helen: Errrrr... no. Oh Adam, I could have done with you the other week, my son had homework where we had to think of words beginning with 'mono' without using a dictionary or computer. Monocle would have been a good one!
Son 3: There's a dinosaur called a 'monolophosaurus'. Did you have that?
Helen: No...
Son 3: And monobrow. My big brother has one of those. Like Ed from Ed, Edd and Eddy. Did you have that? Monotonous?
Me: *mutters* Monologue?
Son 3: What's a monologue?
Helen: Kind of what you've done since you walked in here?
Son 3: Can I have a monocle?
Helen: Errrrr... no. Oh Adam, I could have done with you the other week, my son had homework where we had to think of words beginning with 'mono' without using a dictionary or computer. Monocle would have been a good one!
Son 3: There's a dinosaur called a 'monolophosaurus'. Did you have that?
Helen: No...
Son 3: And monobrow. My big brother has one of those. Like Ed from Ed, Edd and Eddy. Did you have that? Monotonous?
Me: *mutters* Monologue?
Son 3: What's a monologue?
Helen: Kind of what you've done since you walked in here?
And then a little later...
Helen shone the light into his eyes.
Son 3: Is this like one of those rooms where you take people prisoner and shine lights in their eyes until they talk?
Me: And to round off your day, Helen, being compared to the Gestapo. You're welcome. Would you like us to find a new Optician for next time?
Son 3: Is this like one of those rooms where you take people prisoner and shine lights in their eyes until they talk?
Me: And to round off your day, Helen, being compared to the Gestapo. You're welcome. Would you like us to find a new Optician for next time?
* * *
Parenting Highlight of the Week - Telling my son to 'Calm your tits' a little louder than I meant to, as his Headmaster held the door open for us with a horrified smile frozen on his face. In front of other parents and children. To which my son responded 'I haven't got tits'. #momgoals
* * *
Me: What's an anteater's real name?
Son 3: Arwel?
*Facepalm*
Son 3: Arwel?
*Facepalm*
* * *
Mr G: Seeing as we've both got indigestion, do you think it might have anything to do with that?
*Nods at Yankee Candle burning in a jar*
Me: What?? Unless you've been bloody eating it, then no? I don't?
*Nods at Yankee Candle burning in a jar*
Me: What?? Unless you've been bloody eating it, then no? I don't?
* * *
Mr G: When have you eaten sprouts?
Me: I haven't, why?
Mr G: Your farts smell of sprouts.
Me: *giggles* Shell's Festive Farts. Greggs do Festive Bakes (yes, yes they do, I've had 6 in the last two weeks #reasonswhyI'mfat) and I do Festive Farts!
Me: I haven't, why?
Mr G: Your farts smell of sprouts.
Me: *giggles* Shell's Festive Farts. Greggs do Festive Bakes (yes, yes they do, I've had 6 in the last two weeks #reasonswhyI'mfat) and I do Festive Farts!
* * *
I sit up in bed, put my glasses on, come to. Then I hear a scream...
Mr G: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!
Me: What the bloody...
Mr G: Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh! Help!
I switch the bedside lamp on. He has pulled his snoring nasal strip off. And somehow, managed to drop it on his nipple. And it had stuck fast. So, with no pussyfooting around, think waxing, I just whipped it off. He screamed again. Bless him.
Mr G: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!
Me: What the bloody...
Mr G: Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh! Help!
I switch the bedside lamp on. He has pulled his snoring nasal strip off. And somehow, managed to drop it on his nipple. And it had stuck fast. So, with no pussyfooting around, think waxing, I just whipped it off. He screamed again. Bless him.
* * *
A sample early morning in the life of Frazzled Shell... Friday 27th November
Son 2: Mum? How many minutes are in a million seconds?
Me: What do I look like, Carol bloody Vorderman? Google it! That's what it's there for?
Son 3: Mum? Are there different types of almonds?
Me: Yes. Whole, flaked - liked the ones I put in my Christmas pudding. Chopped ones, ground ones that look like powder, which I use for certain curries?
Son 3: Are there wild almonds?
Me: Oh... I don't know. Waitrose might have them.
Son 3: I saw it on Youtube. They can kill you.
Son 2: Mum? How many minutes are in a million seconds?
Me: What do I look like, Carol bloody Vorderman? Google it! That's what it's there for?
Son 3: Mum? Are there different types of almonds?
Me: Yes. Whole, flaked - liked the ones I put in my Christmas pudding. Chopped ones, ground ones that look like powder, which I use for certain curries?
Son 3: Are there wild almonds?
Me: Oh... I don't know. Waitrose might have them.
Son 3: I saw it on Youtube. They can kill you.
Me: Ah. I thought you were talking about ones you buy in shops. I tend to steer away from the ones that kill you as a rule...
Son 3: Then there's puffer fish...
Me: Jesus...
Son 3: Mum? How can an apple kill you?
Me: I don't know.
Son 3: *giggles* Maybe if it's thrown at your head?
Son 3: Mum? Is there a mushroom where you see pretty colours? (LOL!)
Me: Yes, yes there is.
Son 3: What do they call them, drug mushrooms?
Me: Magic mushrooms.
Son 3: Mum? How did Hitler die?
Son 3: I've never had a poo at school. Well, it'd be a bit weird seeing as I take all my clothes off to have a poo. Can you imagine the teacher looking under the door and seeing me sat there naked having a dump? Awkward!
Son 3: Mum? Do baby crocodiles make cute noises?
Me: I don't know.
Son 3: Mum? Do you know rattlesnakes, do they do the rattle from the back of the tail?
Me: DO I LOOK LIKE DAVID BLOODY ATTENBOROUGH?!
Son 3: Then there's puffer fish...
Me: Jesus...
Son 3: Mum? How can an apple kill you?
Me: I don't know.
Son 3: *giggles* Maybe if it's thrown at your head?
Son 3: Mum? Is there a mushroom where you see pretty colours? (LOL!)
Me: Yes, yes there is.
Son 3: What do they call them, drug mushrooms?
Me: Magic mushrooms.
Son 3: Mum? How did Hitler die?
Son 3: I've never had a poo at school. Well, it'd be a bit weird seeing as I take all my clothes off to have a poo. Can you imagine the teacher looking under the door and seeing me sat there naked having a dump? Awkward!
Son 3: Mum? Do baby crocodiles make cute noises?
Me: I don't know.
Son 3: Mum? Do you know rattlesnakes, do they do the rattle from the back of the tail?
Me: DO I LOOK LIKE DAVID BLOODY ATTENBOROUGH?!
* * *
Son 2: Bro, have you got any loom bands?
Son 3: *snaps* Why?
Son 2: I just want to borrow one.
Son 3: For God's sake! What for?
Son 2: I want to make something.
Me: Son 3? You've got thousands of the bloody things. Don't be mean.
Son 3: Fine! They're upstairs by the shelf. And DON'T use any black or white. Or any of the primary colours.
Me: You can use pink or orange.
Son 3: Or orange...
Me: Just get a pink one...
And then there was this from son 3. Mr G was showing him a picture of his great Grandfather.
Son 3: If he hadn't died, would he be alive now?
Son 3: *snaps* Why?
Son 2: I just want to borrow one.
Son 3: For God's sake! What for?
Son 2: I want to make something.
Me: Son 3? You've got thousands of the bloody things. Don't be mean.
Son 3: Fine! They're upstairs by the shelf. And DON'T use any black or white. Or any of the primary colours.
Me: You can use pink or orange.
Son 3: Or orange...
Me: Just get a pink one...
And then there was this from son 3. Mr G was showing him a picture of his great Grandfather.
Son 3: If he hadn't died, would he be alive now?
* * *
Mr G: *Reading news online* Oh! Gary Neville's finally won a match as manager.
Son 3: * interrupts* Gary Neville? Pah. Gary Neville is dead to me. Dead.
Mr G: Um...
Me: Why...
Son 3: Gary, that is the, like, blonde one?
Me: No, that's his brother Phil.
Son 3: Oh. Well, Phil Neville is dead to me. Dead.
Me: Why?
Son 3: Well. I had *random footballer* in my Match Attax Trading Cards, and *friend* managed to talk me into swapping him for Phil Neville, who I also didn't have. *Random footballer* was one of the best in the pack. I get home, I buy a pack of cards, I get another Phil Neville. Who nobody wants. I have two Phil Neville's. And no *random footballer*. Dead to me.
Son 3: * interrupts* Gary Neville? Pah. Gary Neville is dead to me. Dead.
Mr G: Um...
Me: Why...
Son 3: Gary, that is the, like, blonde one?
Me: No, that's his brother Phil.
Son 3: Oh. Well, Phil Neville is dead to me. Dead.
Me: Why?
Son 3: Well. I had *random footballer* in my Match Attax Trading Cards, and *friend* managed to talk me into swapping him for Phil Neville, who I also didn't have. *Random footballer* was one of the best in the pack. I get home, I buy a pack of cards, I get another Phil Neville. Who nobody wants. I have two Phil Neville's. And no *random footballer*. Dead to me.
* * *
Son 3 decided to let me know just before school one morning that he didn't like that day's lunch option and that he needed a packed lunch. So, off we we rushed to the supermarket, came home, I assembled the lunch quickly, put it in the box. Mr G then says...
Mr G: Parmesan lunch.
Me: What?
Mr G: I'll just go and take son's lunch up to school.
Me: And that sentence translates to 'Parmesan lunch'... how?
Mr G: I don't know. I don't know. I don't even like parmesan.
Mr G: Parmesan lunch.
Me: What?
Mr G: I'll just go and take son's lunch up to school.
Me: And that sentence translates to 'Parmesan lunch'... how?
Mr G: I don't know. I don't know. I don't even like parmesan.
* * *
Mr G: I'll see if there's anything about it on Fastrybook.
(It's a social network, in a pie crust. Two of Mr G's favourite things, combined).
(It's a social network, in a pie crust. Two of Mr G's favourite things, combined).
* * *
Upon discharge from hospital, he telephoned me to inform me that...
Mr G: They're just taking me down to Adventure Land.
He meant Departure Lounge, much to the mirth of the nurse pushing his wheelchair, and the other patients who heard him. I texted him later to ask if he was Finn or Jake... and sent it to my mother by accident. So I'm just as bad.
Mr G: They're just taking me down to Adventure Land.
He meant Departure Lounge, much to the mirth of the nurse pushing his wheelchair, and the other patients who heard him. I texted him later to ask if he was Finn or Jake... and sent it to my mother by accident. So I'm just as bad.
* * *
Then once home, he was pondering upon why his body was itching so much...
Mr G: Maybe it's these semipeed. Tramadol. Where did I get semipeed from?
Mr G: Maybe it's these semipeed. Tramadol. Where did I get semipeed from?
* * *
Mr G: I've found an Adidas watch upstairs son 3, you can have that. I just need to get a bing for it next time I'm in town.
Me: A bing?
Son 3: A bing??
Mr G: I meant battery.
Me: A bing?
Son 3: A bing??
Mr G: I meant battery.
* * *
Son 3: Dad, have you got any more scars?
Mr G: Yes, I've got one on my hand, one on my shoulder, four lots on my stomach, scars on both my ankles, and one on my *nods to nether regions* you know.
Son 3: You've got a scar on your penis????
Mr G: No! On my, you know... testicle.
Son 3: Why??
Mr G: I had a lump and they had to take it out.
Son 3: Ouch.
Mr G: (to me) He's dead now, you know.
Me: Who is?
Mr G: The surgeon who operated on me.
Son 3: Huh! He's dead to you after cutting your balls open!
Mr G: Yes, I've got one on my hand, one on my shoulder, four lots on my stomach, scars on both my ankles, and one on my *nods to nether regions* you know.
Son 3: You've got a scar on your penis????
Mr G: No! On my, you know... testicle.
Son 3: Why??
Mr G: I had a lump and they had to take it out.
Son 3: Ouch.
Mr G: (to me) He's dead now, you know.
Me: Who is?
Mr G: The surgeon who operated on me.
Son 3: Huh! He's dead to you after cutting your balls open!
* * *
Son 3: I think I'm looking forward to starting secondary school next year. Will I like it?
Me: I think you'll love it. You like learning, you'll have loads of different, new, interesting lessons.
Son 3: Are the teachers nice?
Me: Well, some are, some aren't, I suppose. Same as it is in any school. Just how it is, isn't it?
Son 3: I think they're just in it for the money.
Me: What? Who?
Son 3: The nasty teachers. Whereas the nice ones are doing it for the kids. And maybe the money just a little bit.
* * *
Son 2: Is Adam crying?
Son 3: No.
Me: No.... why...?
Son 2: Damn it! I wanted to feed off his despair...
Son 3: Mum? Was Son 2's Nintendo DS the first thing of his that I ever broke?
Me: Probably not, no.
Son 2: No. You broke my heart when you were born. I wanted a sister.
* * *
Lying in bed last night, after doing a run on the treadmill, I was still a little stunned.
Me: I ran. *I shake my head* I actually ran.
Mr G: I know. You've gone from Mo Slater to Mo Farah overnight.
Me: *silence for a few moments as this sentence registers* Which Mo Slater do you mean?
Mr G: *quickly* Little. Little Mo.
Both: Good save, Grundy. Good save.
*Silence for a few minutes*
Mr G: Thank fuck there was a little one...
* * *
Me: Mr G, my new boots don't fit me. My calves are too big.
Mr G: What new boots?
Me: I didn't mention the words new. They've been in the wardrobe for years. What am I going to do? *Mental note - hide second pair of new boots bought in sale that also don't zip up around mahoosive calves*
Mr G: Send them back?
Me: No! What am I going to do about my calves to make the boots fit?
Mr G: Google it.
Me: *Googles it* Oh bugger. Running is good... as is walking, but not on an incline! Bloody hell, I've been walking on the treadmill on an incline! I have to keep it flat from now on. No wonder my calves are massive, I've been toning the sodding huge things, I've been making them muscular!
Son 2: Muscular Mummy!
* * *
Son 3 in hospital... setting equality back a few decades with this comment.
Me: That nurse said, who assessed you in triage.
Son 3: Who?
Me: That nurse.
Son 3: What nurse?
Me: The male nurse you saw, who cut your pants off!
Son 3: Huh? He's a nurse? Is he allowed to be a nurse?
Me: Yes...
Son 3: *pauses* So... women can be... Doctors?
Me: Yes! We've got the vote too!
* * *
Son 3: *Brings me a carrier bag and masking tape* Mum, can you make a hole in that bag, and tape it round my arm, over my cast.
Me: Why?
Son 3: I want to help Dad with these plants and don't want anything getting down my cast.
Me: Oh. Okay.
Son 3 and Mr G potter in the garden. Then, from the kitchen, I hear...
Son 3: Dad? Is that cowpat open?
Me: Huh?
Son 3: Dad! Is that cowpat open?
Mr G: What bloody cowpat?
Son 3: That new bag of cowpat that you just bought?
Mr G: Compost, Son 3. The word you're looking for is compost?
Son 3: Ah! I knew it started with a 'c'...
* * *
Mr G: Man-made chips for tea, tonight?
Me: Um... yes. But will woman-made chips suffice? Unless you're planning on cooking?
Mr G: What do I mean?
Me: Homemade chips?
Me: Um... yes. But will woman-made chips suffice? Unless you're planning on cooking?
Mr G: What do I mean?
Me: Homemade chips?
* * *
Mr G and the hunt for a jacket...
Mr G: I managed to find a jacket today.
Son 3: Did you? Thank God that's over with...
Me: No, to be fair, he found it in the first shop he went in to. Right in front of the door.
Son 3: *glares at Mr G* Oh. Great. And you dragged me around loads of shops and didn't get anything?
Mr G: I didn't buy it straight away.
Son 3: Why not?
Mr G: I had a look in all the scrap yards first.
Son 3: Scrap yards? Isn't that where cars go to die?
Me: *crying*
Mr G: No, not scrap yards, what are they called.
Me: Charity shops...
* * *
Me: Oooh. Lawson's new album is released in July. I'll pre-order it if I can.
Mr G: Is their new single off it called 'Penetration' or something?
Me: *stops washing up* What???
Mr G: The new single. Penetration?
Me: Um, no. I think you might be thinking of the new album title, which is 'Perspective'?
Mr G: That's the one.
* * *
Me: Son 2, do you want your toast cutting?
Son 2: Yes please.
Me: How? Squares or triangles?
Son 3: Triangles please.
Me: There you go.
Son 2: Yes please.
Me: How? Squares or triangles?
Son 3: Triangles please.
Me: There you go.
Son 2: *walks away* I love Illuminati toast...
* * *
Son 3: Dad, can you wash my scarf? It's in my school bag and it's got pencil crumbs on it...
Mr G: What are pencil crumbs??
Son 3: The bits that come when you sharpen a pencil?
Mr G: What are pencil crumbs??
Son 3: The bits that come when you sharpen a pencil?
* * *
Watching an episode of Ninjago, where one character threw his brother into a portal.
Son 3: That's not nice, is it? Throwing your brother into a portal?
Me: Well, depends which brother you mean, doesn't it?
Son 3: *pauses* If you threw David (my brother) into a portal, would his head get stuck?
* * *
Mr G assembling some very tacky fluttering garden ornaments. They're crap, but the birds are decimating our baskets to take the matting for their nests, and they're a good deterrent.
Mr G: Oooooooh it's a dandelion this time, not a butterfly.
Me: It's a what?
Mr G: A dragonfly.
Me: You said dandelion.
Mr G: No I didn't, you're listening things.
* * *
Relaxing in Ye Olde Boote Inn while away celebrating my birthday, totally chilled, really nice atmosphere...
Me: Really nice, this.
Mr G: Relaxing. No rowdiness at all.
Me: *jokingly* We're amongst a better class of people, darling.
Mr G: Yes. The English...
* * *
Looking at the birthday bunting strung up at the window, he says...
Mr G: You can make 'Hell Mice' out of your name...
* * *
Mr G stumbling in the dark next to our bed.
Mr G: Bloody hell, I nearly fell over your lawnmower then! (Hairdryer...)
* * *
Me: What do you want as a side with your burger tonight?
Mr G: Hmmmm. Have we got any of those wedges that we had Saturday night?
Me: No.
Mr G: What about some prickly fries?
Me: Pardon?
Mr G: Shut up. They're not called that...
Me: ...
Mr G: What do I mean. Those chips that are like... *makes spiral shapes in the air*
Me: Curly fries?
Mr G: Hmmmm. Have we got any of those wedges that we had Saturday night?
Me: No.
Mr G: What about some prickly fries?
Me: Pardon?
Mr G: Shut up. They're not called that...
Me: ...
Mr G: What do I mean. Those chips that are like... *makes spiral shapes in the air*
Me: Curly fries?
* * *
Daughter ambled into the room with her iPhone and headphones in. She of the purple hair and black lipstick and Bring me the Horizon and general adolescent misery. That daughter.
Daughter: ♬ Bet on it, bet on it, bet on it, bet on it...♬
Me: ...
Daughter: Oh my God. High School Musical. I am the shittest emo in the world, aren't I?
Me: Pretty much, yes.
Daughter: I can't remember simple math formulas but I can recite this whole movie word for word...
Daughter: I can't remember simple math formulas but I can recite this whole movie word for word...
* * *
Me: Have you ever had halloumi, babe?
Mr G: *pauses* Is that a food or an ailment?
Although knowing him, if I'd said ailment, he'd have probably contracted it!
* * *
Stood in the kitchen yesterday attempting to make Smoked Mackerel kedgeree with cauliflower rice. Don't ask. Never again. However...
Mr G: *looks warily into pan* So, what's this called again, menagerie?
Me: ...
* * *
Mr G: Don't step on the (what sounded like) Core Bits
Me: *stops*
Mr G: Don't step on the grass seed.
Me: *looks puzzled* What did you say?
Mr G: Don't step on the grass seed?
Me: No. Before that. It wasn't 'grass seed'
Mr G: Shut up.
Me: Tell me. Or no kebabs tonight.
Mr G: *mutters* Corbetts. I said 'Don't step on the Corbetts.'
Me: Corbetts as in...? What the hell?
Mr G: Corbetts as in Ronnie.
* * *
I showed Son 3 the new cloth napkins I had bought from Edinburgh Woollen Mill, and the napkin rings.
Me: Look son 3, new napkins, so you can tuck into your Christmas dinner and not get food all over your Christmas jumper. Classy, eh?
Son 3: Yeah, really classy. Napkins with a packet of Bernard Matthews chicken and some of that veg in bags you put in the microwave.
Can I just point out, that I have never, ever served Bernard Matthews packet chicken and steam veg as a roast dinner? And I never, ever would. So where he gets these ideas from is beyond me.
* * *
When we went to Cru's end of season awards, my brother very kindly had the children overnight for us. I left instructions with son 3.
Me: You know where the crisps and biscuits are. Help yourself but make sure you offer Uncle David something as well. He probably won't want anything, so don't press him to eat lot of junk food. He doesn't eat a lot.
Son 3: Doesn't he?
Me: No. He's got a very small appetite.
Son 3: And a massive head?
* * *
Worryingly, from Mr G...
Mr G: I'm in a mischievous mood. What can I do to mischieve?
* * *
In bed, discussing an... interesting... debate between Mr G and someone on a Facebook group that he's an admin on. By debate, I mean that a lunatic engaged with Mr G, and Mr G duly obliged...
Mr G: You know what, if they are actually able to read your private messages on these social networking sites, I bet that Martin Huckleburger is pissing himself laughing...
Me: What??? Who?
Mr G: Martin Huckleburger. The man who made Facebook.
Me: Er... Mark Zuckerberg?
Mr G: That's him.
Right. Because a twenty something billionaire has nothing better to do of an evening than trawl through private messages for shits and giggles...?
Mr G: You know what, if they are actually able to read your private messages on these social networking sites, I bet that Martin Huckleburger is pissing himself laughing...
Me: What??? Who?
Mr G: Martin Huckleburger. The man who made Facebook.
Me: Er... Mark Zuckerberg?
Mr G: That's him.
Right. Because a twenty something billionaire has nothing better to do of an evening than trawl through private messages for shits and giggles...?
* * *
Getting the washing in the other night before it rained, Mr G was smugly surveying his garden. He nodded towards the wooden planter that he'd scattered random seeds in.
Mr G: The flowers that will grow in there, are meant to attract cauliflowers.
Me: ...
Mr G: *quickly* Butterflies...
Mr G: The flowers that will grow in there, are meant to attract cauliflowers.
Me: ...
Mr G: *quickly* Butterflies...
* * *
Talking with the children about all the acts we've seen live since we've been together...
Me: Jay Z. Kylie three times. Simply Red. The Beat.
Mr G: Cheryl Cole *sighs* Cheryl Cole...
Me: Kasabian.
Mr G: Incy Wincy Spider.
Me: Beg pardon?
Mr G: Incy Wincy Spider. Big Weekend?
Me: Tinie Tempah?
Mr G: That's him.
Me: Jay Z. Kylie three times. Simply Red. The Beat.
Mr G: Cheryl Cole *sighs* Cheryl Cole...
Me: Kasabian.
Mr G: Incy Wincy Spider.
Me: Beg pardon?
Mr G: Incy Wincy Spider. Big Weekend?
Me: Tinie Tempah?
Mr G: That's him.
* * *
Son 3 and Son 2 falling out spectacularly at the rugby a few months ago.
Son 3: I'll RKO you, you dickhead.
(I couldn't tell him off for laughing. I know you shouldn't, but it caught me off guard. I then had to Google what RKO was. And then laughed some more).
Son 3: I'll RKO you, you dickhead.
(I couldn't tell him off for laughing. I know you shouldn't, but it caught me off guard. I then had to Google what RKO was. And then laughed some more).
* * *
Son 2: Dad? Are tattoos like... paint? Or sewing?
Mr G: *snort*
Daughter: What???
Son 2: Are tattoos like paint, or sewing?
Daughter: It's ink! Bellend! (storms off)
* * *
Mr G and I having a cuddle and a kiss in the kitchen. Son 2 walks in.
Son 2: I don't like where this is going.
Son 2: I don't like where this is going.
* * *
Asking Son 2 whether he took French or German in school...
Son 2: Both.
Me: Oh! We only took one in the first few years. Which language do you prefer? French or German?
Son 2: Both.
Me: Oh! We only took one in the first few years. Which language do you prefer? French or German?
Son 2: I don't know.
Me: Which one do you find easier?
Son 2: Probably German, because of all the Hitler memes.
Me: ...
* * *
Mr G's morphine moments...
Mr G: My eyelids are moving...
Mr G: My eyes are spinning...
Mr G: *completely randomly, out of the blue* Ha! That's something you've never heard. This Government talking about emigration.
Me: What??
Mr G: What? I didn't say anything.
Mr G: I'm going to bed.
Me: Ok. You go up. I'll just tidy up down here, lock up and I'll be up.
Five minutes later, Mr G appears in the hallway and scares me
Me: Jesus! You scared me. I thought you'd gone upstairs?
Mr G: I am.
Me: Er, clearly you're not?
Mr G: Where are my glasses?
Me: You're wearing them.
Mr G: Oh. I thought it was odd that I couldn't find them.
Mr G: My eyelids are moving...
Mr G: My eyes are spinning...
Mr G: *completely randomly, out of the blue* Ha! That's something you've never heard. This Government talking about emigration.
Me: What??
Mr G: What? I didn't say anything.
Mr G: I'm going to bed.
Me: Ok. You go up. I'll just tidy up down here, lock up and I'll be up.
Five minutes later, Mr G appears in the hallway and scares me
Me: Jesus! You scared me. I thought you'd gone upstairs?
Mr G: I am.
Me: Er, clearly you're not?
Mr G: Where are my glasses?
Me: You're wearing them.
Mr G: Oh. I thought it was odd that I couldn't find them.
* * *
A couple of years ago, my Dad, Mr G, my eldest son and I went to the cinema to watch The Inbetweeners Movie. Driving home, my father imparts this gem...
Dad: That'll be you in a few years, Grandson. You and your mates abroad, in one of those froth discos
Son 1: Huh?
Me: Foam party, son 1. Foam party.
Dad: That'll be you in a few years, Grandson. You and your mates abroad, in one of those froth discos
Son 1: Huh?
Me: Foam party, son 1. Foam party.
* * *
Original Source Tea Tree and Mint shower gel. You'd have to have been living under a rock not to know of it, and its... er... side effects. Particularly on genitalia. Male, female, it shows no discrimination, and seemingly, little mercy.
Cut to our recent break away at the in laws. Son 2 takes a shower. And my husband, in his infinite wisdom, he who actually likes the... tingle of said shower gel (sadist), had only packed that. It was that, or my Raspberry and Vanilla shower gel. 'Just use mine' said Mr G. And so he did. Poor, poor son 2.
And so our story starts off in Wigan. Approximately 9 am.
Son 2: Dad? You know that green shower gel? I'm burning.
Mr G: Yeah. It does that.
Didn't think anything more of it. Cue a (no doubt) very uncomfortable two hour car ride home. And then, at 9.30 pm, he comes downstairs and says...
Son 2: Mum? You know how when you eat spicy food, milk helps?
Me: Yes.
Son 2: Will dunking my testicles into a glass of milk help to ease the pain? They're still red...
Me: Oh my God, really?
Son 2: Yes.
Son 3: Noted. I'll stick to my Lynx...
Son 2: Are there chillies in it?
Me: Not as I know of.
Son 3: The pain won't go away and it's testicling my patience.
And soooooooo I showed him that he wasn't alone in his struggle. In particular one article. And when he read the words...
“MY FLAPS WERE ON F***ING FIRE, Tingling? TINGLING? This wasn’t tingling my minge. It was starting a f***ing bush fire down there.”
... he lost it, and laughed and laughed and laughed. Son 2 now sticks to Lynx, also. Lesson learned.
Cut to our recent break away at the in laws. Son 2 takes a shower. And my husband, in his infinite wisdom, he who actually likes the... tingle of said shower gel (sadist), had only packed that. It was that, or my Raspberry and Vanilla shower gel. 'Just use mine' said Mr G. And so he did. Poor, poor son 2.
And so our story starts off in Wigan. Approximately 9 am.
Son 2: Dad? You know that green shower gel? I'm burning.
Mr G: Yeah. It does that.
Didn't think anything more of it. Cue a (no doubt) very uncomfortable two hour car ride home. And then, at 9.30 pm, he comes downstairs and says...
Son 2: Mum? You know how when you eat spicy food, milk helps?
Me: Yes.
Son 2: Will dunking my testicles into a glass of milk help to ease the pain? They're still red...
Me: Oh my God, really?
Son 2: Yes.
Son 3: Noted. I'll stick to my Lynx...
Son 2: Are there chillies in it?
Me: Not as I know of.
Son 3: The pain won't go away and it's testicling my patience.
And soooooooo I showed him that he wasn't alone in his struggle. In particular one article. And when he read the words...
“MY FLAPS WERE ON F***ING FIRE, Tingling? TINGLING? This wasn’t tingling my minge. It was starting a f***ing bush fire down there.”
... he lost it, and laughed and laughed and laughed. Son 2 now sticks to Lynx, also. Lesson learned.
* * *
Son 2: Mum, imagine you were a flamingo.
Me: *blank*
Son 2: And you had pins and needles or your leg went numb.
Me: *blank*
Son 2: Because flamingos, they stand like this *stands on one leg*
Me: Go away. Please. Just go away.
Me: *blank*
Son 2: And you had pins and needles or your leg went numb.
Me: *blank*
Son 2: Because flamingos, they stand like this *stands on one leg*
Me: Go away. Please. Just go away.
* * *
Mr G: It is comedy gold watching you eat. You'd get less food down you, eating soup with a sieve.
* * *
Camping in Llangollen. I was sat outside with my wine and Kindle, and Mr G was lying down, having a minute, on his campbed. Son 2 walked to the door, looked at him and uttered these immortal words...
Son 2: 'Paint me, like a Latvian hillbilly...'
* * *
Mr G: Can I have a bumble...?
Walks away
Me: Huh?
I follow him into the kitchen
Me: What did you just say? Did you say... bumble?
Mr G: Yes
Me: What did you mean?
Mr G: I can't even say it.
Me: What did you mean?
Mr G: I walked in and I saw them. Doughnuts. And I thought 'Mmmm. Bumbles'.
(And yes, when he said 'Mmmm. Bumbles' - he sounded like Homer Simpson. Bless)
Walks away
Me: Huh?
I follow him into the kitchen
Me: What did you just say? Did you say... bumble?
Mr G: Yes
Me: What did you mean?
Mr G: I can't even say it.
Me: What did you mean?
Mr G: I walked in and I saw them. Doughnuts. And I thought 'Mmmm. Bumbles'.
(And yes, when he said 'Mmmm. Bumbles' - he sounded like Homer Simpson. Bless)
* * *
Mr G: I think I'm going to have some sex with my chicken.
Me: What? The fuck?
Mr G: I meant lettuce. Lettuce.
Me: What? The fuck?
Mr G: I meant lettuce. Lettuce.
* * *
Mr G: Do you know, there's four different brands of bird in that tree?
Me: Brands?
Mr G: Yeah. Chaffinch, blue tit, robin and blackbird.
Me: Brands?
Me: Brands?
Mr G: Yeah. Chaffinch, blue tit, robin and blackbird.
Me: Brands?
* * *
In the car, Dragon Radio on, pulling into a parking space in Asda. Prince is warbling Raspberry Beret... and Mr G is warbling...
Mr G: She wore a raspberry parade.
Me: What?
Mr G: What?
Me: Did you just sing... raspberry parade?
Mr G: Yes, why?
Me: Did you really think it was raspberry parade? Seriously? That’s what you’ve sang all these years?
Mr G: Well, what the hell is a raspberry beret? Someone with fruit on their head? Makes no sense.
Me: I think it’s meant to be the colour? A beret in a raspberry colour? At least that makes more sense than a raspberry parade. How do you wear a parade?
Mr G: She wore a raspberry parade.
Me: What?
Mr G: What?
Me: Did you just sing... raspberry parade?
Mr G: Yes, why?
Me: Did you really think it was raspberry parade? Seriously? That’s what you’ve sang all these years?
Mr G: Well, what the hell is a raspberry beret? Someone with fruit on their head? Makes no sense.
Me: I think it’s meant to be the colour? A beret in a raspberry colour? At least that makes more sense than a raspberry parade. How do you wear a parade?
* * *
Mr G: I've emptied all those things. Terragators.
Me: *looks blankly at him*
Mr G: What are they called? Proprietors.
Me: *still blank*
Mr G: Fookin' ell, I'm getting worse... those things with seedlings.
Me: Do you want me to tell you?
Mr G: Yes.
Me: Propagators.
Mr G: I've emptied those.
Me: *looks blankly at him*
Mr G: What are they called? Proprietors.
Me: *still blank*
Mr G: Fookin' ell, I'm getting worse... those things with seedlings.
Me: Do you want me to tell you?
Mr G: Yes.
Me: Propagators.
Mr G: I've emptied those.
* * *
And... driving down Caernarfon Road...
Mr G: Where are we going now, Thunderfields?
Me: ...
Mr G: What the fuck am I going on about? What's Thunderfields?
Mr G: Where are we going now, Thunderfields?
Me: ...
Mr G: What the fuck am I going on about? What's Thunderfields?
* * *
Requested beef burger with a salad for his tea. Then he asks... 'can you make me some of your homemade wedges to go with it?' I'd sooner do without than have wedges, but I love him, so yes, fine...
So, once our tea is cooked, we're sat down and the first thing that I eat is one of the potato wedges. As I'm chewing it, he says this...
Mr G: Do your donkey flowers taste nice?
Well, how I didn't choke on it I'll never know. We were both laughing so hard. I was crying, my specs were all steamed up, I had to clean the tears away from them twice.
So, once our tea is cooked, we're sat down and the first thing that I eat is one of the potato wedges. As I'm chewing it, he says this...
Mr G: Do your donkey flowers taste nice?
Well, how I didn't choke on it I'll never know. We were both laughing so hard. I was crying, my specs were all steamed up, I had to clean the tears away from them twice.
* * *
Mr G: Have we got any remarkable pens?
Marker pens...
* * *
Son: Is bitch a swear?
Me: Depends what context you use the word in.
Son: What if you say 'I'm going to take my bitch out for a walk'
Me: ...
Mr G: I do. I take her Pokemon hunting
* * *
Mr G discussing... something. Someone.
Mr G: He can be my Joker. No. What are they called? Those things that kings have. Make you laugh. Jeplins.
Me: Jesters?
Mr G: That's them
* * *
Mr G: I've taken 15 ml of exorcist.
Lactulose, FYI
* * *
Son 3, telling me about showing his teacher some card tricks during free lessons in the last week of term.
Son 3: So, she picked the six of tails...
Me: What??
Son 3: The six of tails...
Me: What the hell?
Son 3: Isn't that what they're called? Oh. Spades.
Me: You didn't call them tails in front of anyone, did you...?
* * *
Mr G was almost ready for work, but had forgotten to put aftershave on. So, to spare going back upstairs, he went into Son 3's downstairs bedroom and asked if he could use one of his aftershaves, to be told...
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