This week’s entry was going to be about our firm’s Christmas party a couple of weeks ago, and to be honest I had well over 1,000 words penned before I decided to ditch it and start again with something else, but I can pretty much sum up the evening in two paragraphs:
I got drunk, then realised I was going to have to dance, so got even more drunk. As the evening drew to a close, a lady collapsed on the dance floor, and, having published my blog entry about fainting earlier that day, I decided that not only was my presence on the dance floor some kind of fate, but I was suitably qualified to offer medical assistance – ignoring the fact that she worked for a GP surgery, and most of her colleagues were either nurses or doctors.
Undeterred, I insisted on trying to offer advice (‘You’re a nurse, I get it, but this has happened to me before’), and was in the process of trying to lift her legs up (the collapsed lady, not the nurse), when one unnecessarily aggressive chap told me to fuck off. So, being a lover not a fighter, fuck off I did, but then another bloke stepped in, squared up to original dickhead, and started a brawl – which ended up with a security guard getting head-butted. We scarpered, and the rest of the evening is a little hazy.
So, that’s my original entry in a nutshell. Quite how I stretched that beyond 1,000 words is a mystery, although I suspect many years spent as a lawyer might have helped.
Then, just as I was mulling over what material might replace it, the Comedy Gods smiled down on me, and Isaac got chicken pox.
That’s not to say I found his itchy misery amusing, far from it, but I had to take my last day of annual leave to look after him on Monday, and decided to keep a record of events….
My wife just left for work, and I’m stuck with two particularly grumpy children. Isaac has every reason to be, as he looks like an extra from The Walking Dead, but quite why Ollie is being such an offensive little twat remains a mystery.
Despite Ollie’s mood, and Isaac’s persistent itching, I have managed to get them both sat at the kitchen table eating cereal.
I initially considered this to be a win, until Ollie chose to have a completely unnecessary tantrum. Essentially, he was lining up some toy animals, to represent a ‘Lion Guard’ (crap Disney spin-off from The Lion King, don’t ask) and insisted that this:
is a honey badger.
Clearly, without any shadow of doubt, it is a cat, and I’d even go so far as to suggest it is Jess from Postman Pat, but one thing it is very much not, is a fucking honey badger. I’m not even sure I know what a ‘honey badger’ looks like – other than a strong suspicion that it bears more than a passing resemblance to a ‘normal’ badger – but I am 99% certain it doesn’t look anything like a black and white cat.
It’s not often that I side with Isaac, over Ollie, when it comes to matters of intellect (in his defence, Isaac is four years Ollie’s junior, and has had a number of head injuries of late), but on this occasion I am very much Team Isaac. Which has only angered Ollie all the more, and made the entire screaming dispute rather confusing – because I am in no doubt that he knows full well it’s a cat, so I’m not sure why he’s being such a dick about it.
Progress has improved considerably. I have managed to put a load of washing on, pay some bills, half-listen to Ollie read his school book (then wrote a note in his planner, giving the impression we spent yesterday afternoon lovingly reading together in front of a burning fire, rather than a rushed five minutes this morning while I forced his shoes on), and I fixed Isaac’s pushchair ready for the school run – the wheel fell off in Waitrose yesterday, amid a string of curse words that I surprised even myself with.
School run complete, and aside from Ollie crying twice, I have safely delivered him to his teacher, fed and fully clothed. Since I now have 50% fewer children than twenty minutes ago, the day is bound to improve.
Realising that I still hadn’t booked my car in for its emissions upgrade with those naughty folk at Volkswagen, I phoned on the off-chance they could fit me in today, and they can – so long as I get the car to them in the next hour. Fine, except I want to hang the washing out before I go.
The final spin cycle finished ages ago, but the door is still locked. I’ve tried kicking the machine, and calling it an ‘insufferable piece of shit’, but neither worked.
Washing finally finished and on the dryer. I might have been able to hang it out quicker, but Isaac insisted on ‘helping’. And, by that, I mean throwing wet socks at me, before running off with a pair of my pants on his head.
Arrived at Volkswagen ten minutes late. They appeared to be put out by my tardiness, until I pointed out that the only reason I was there on my last day of holiday, with a sick child, was because they are a bunch of lying, cheating, rule-dodging fuckers, and we decided to call it quits. They have assured me that the car will be ready for 1pm, which means I can take Pox Boy into Crewe for a bit.
Turns out my recollection of the distance between VW and the town centre is woefully inaccurate. I’ve been walking for nearly half an hour, hunched over Isaac’s crappy pushchair (the handle won’t extend to suit anyone over 5’4”, and the steering appears to have been modelled on the QE2), and I’m still nowhere near. I’m inclined to Google which is longer – this journey, or the river Nile.
Made it to the retail park in Crewe, and headed for Costa. Handed over life savings for two drinks, a piece of cake for me, and a penguin biscuit for Isaac.
He initially wanted a penguin biscuit, then chose a cookie, and finally a gingerbread man, before settling back on the penguin biscuit. Just as I was about to buy it, he changed his mind again to the cookie.
Then, as soon as I had made the purchase, he demanded the fucking penguin biscuit. I decided to teach him a lesson, and insisted he have the cookie…. but within ten seconds, I gave in to his embarrassing screams and queue-jumped to make yet another swap.
“Hi. Yes, I know you just served me. Yes, I was the guy with the indecisive little shit. Turns out, he does want the penguin biscuit after all – if you could exchange it again please. Yes, I’ll be sure to tell him you hate him.”
The women next to me are giving me filthy looks, because I have apparently brought the Bubonic Plague into their miserable lives. I’ve tried having a loud conversation with Isaac, about how he’s much better and no longer contagious, but this has not appeased them.
To make matters worse, Isaac has now finished his penguin biscuit, as well as most of my cake and hot chocolate, and is demanding the cookie we put back. Time to leave (but not before letting him cough over the woman next to me as we pass).
Have managed to buy all my family’s Christmas cards, including a ‘Merry Christmas Brother and His Pregnant Wife’ (see, Mum, I can buy overly specific cards too), and have started the long walk back to VW, just in case they haven’t also lied about my car being ready for 1:00pm.
Just encountered the scummiest man in Crewe (which is some achievement). He hurriedly overtook us as we were walking towards the train station, then dashed to pick up a discarded fag packet on the pavement, which he obviously thought I had my eye on. No, mate, be my guest.
He then turned, while checking through the sodden packet, and shouted ‘well, you gotta check, just in case, eh?’ Amazingly, I found myself nodding in agreement, but this only confirmed his suspicion that we were indeed in competition, and so he scuttled off to make sure he was first to the next one.
Arrived back at VW, ten minutes late again. Naturally, the car was only ‘nearly ready’, but they would give me a shout in a few minutes.
The car is finally ready.
The generous people at VW, by way of an apology for their multi-million pound scam, have given me a VW gift set, comprising a VW key ring, a VW key fob, a VW pen, a VW flask, and two VW business cards, in case they can ever be of assistance in the future, should I need something else illegally tampered with.
They have also apparently washed the car – which I was initially grateful for, until I remembered that I had washed it myself only yesterday. So now I’m just left feeling insulted, as if they saw the job I had done yesterday, and decided to make it better. Cheeky swines.
They’ve also done a ‘health check’, and have told me that various parts of the car need attention, so although the emissions upgrade is free, if I would care to spend my children’s university fund on some brake pads, they’d be happy to help. Not a chance.
Don’t judge me, but after the morning I’ve had, I’m taking Isaac to McDonalds for lunch. Well, I’m not taking him inside, clearly (not after the Costa incident), but we’ll get a Drive-Thru and take it home.
Had a row with Isaac at the Drive-Thru. He only wants beans on toast for lunch, but when I said I’d happily make that for him at home, he screamed and insisted that he wanted it from McDonalds. I tried to explain that McDonalds don’t do beans on toast, but he wasn’t having it, so I had to ask ‘Sally One-Star’ at the Drive-Thru window to play along.
Quite why I thought someone who struggles with the concept of a ‘plain hamburger’, would be able to master a bit of impromptu role-play with an irrational toddler, I don’t know.
Finally home, and having wolfed down my burgers, fries, and diet coke (the bloody milkshake machine wasn’t working, as if my day couldn’t get any worse), I feel much better.
No, of course I don’t, I just ate a McDonalds. I feel like shit and hate myself.
Time for a lie down.