Discussing the things kids do and say - here's another beauty...
For our family it's an oldie, relating back to a bygone time when the Big Girl was an only child and I was still relatively new to the role of Wicked Stepmother.
I've got it downpat these days.
While visiting a little-known Great-Grandmother the Big Girl had been warned to be on her very best behaviour and had, on the whole, been angelic, if slightly saccharine, for the entire visit.
On the morning of Grammy’s birthday – the purpose of the visit – Big Girl met her Great-Grandmother in the sunshiney kitchen for breakfast, where about a dozen cousins, nieces, nephews and grown-up siblings were gathered for coffee and cereal (as applicable to varied ages).
With all the perkiness of a Pears Soap advert Big Girl stood on tippy-toe in the middle of the kitchen to plant a kiss on her Great-Grandmother’s cheek.
Then, with Shirley Temple-like enunciation and projection, declared “why Grammy – you forget to shave this morning”.
An entire herd of snickering family-members thank God to this day that Grammy was too deaf and too morning-muddled to realise exactly what our darling Big Girl had announced to the entire clan.
She still comments to this day on what a delightful child the precocious little princess is.
Proof that love might be blind, but it's better if it's deaf.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
A Tender Moment Gone Terribly Wrong
I've been living in a loveless home for 18 months now.
It's true - no kisses.
My greatest love and I have been reduced to brief hugs, a peck on the head now and then.
I have to chase him around the kitchen table for the briefest show of affection - except of course when he's in the mood to simply pounce on me.
Even then the best I can hope for is drool and a fat lip.
OK - relax.
I'm talking about the Boy.
My darling Boy gave up kisses at the tender age of 2.
I don't know what soured the experience for him, but I've been missing his kisses for a long time now - after all, he's my baby.
I knew, one day, when he was 11 or 12 I could expect to be an embarassment to him (it is a family tradition I had committed myself to making the most of by wallowing in the cliches - yelling 'yoo hoo' across crowded school lawns, dropping him to school in my bathrobe, bringing him a packed lunch in class) - but at 2?
(In fact, one of my friends and I had plotted to marry our kids off to each other so we could spend our Christmases together for the rest of our lives and combine to embarass them all by getting drunk and singing at family functions - it's still a good plan.)
I blame all those grabby, brash women who would leap at my blue-eyed, blonde-headed darling from across crowded shopping centres.
"Oh he's so lovely!" They'd squeal.
Then he'd thrash in their arms and headbutt them and they'd get a better idea of what lay beneath the surface.
But today, for the briefest moment he leaned his soft, chubby cheek up against mine and clasped his strong little arms around my neck.
It was lovely - a 'madonna and child' moment.
I crowed with pride and joy to the Man - "Look! I got a kiss!" I announced.
"Oh no, Mummy," the Boy replied.
"I was just wiping my dribble on you."
Kids - who'd have 'em.
How about you guys?
Want one?
Only slightly used, although a little bit sticky and damp but nice to look at - from a distance.
It's true - no kisses.
My greatest love and I have been reduced to brief hugs, a peck on the head now and then.
I have to chase him around the kitchen table for the briefest show of affection - except of course when he's in the mood to simply pounce on me.
Even then the best I can hope for is drool and a fat lip.
OK - relax.
I'm talking about the Boy.
My darling Boy gave up kisses at the tender age of 2.
I don't know what soured the experience for him, but I've been missing his kisses for a long time now - after all, he's my baby.
I knew, one day, when he was 11 or 12 I could expect to be an embarassment to him (it is a family tradition I had committed myself to making the most of by wallowing in the cliches - yelling 'yoo hoo' across crowded school lawns, dropping him to school in my bathrobe, bringing him a packed lunch in class) - but at 2?
(In fact, one of my friends and I had plotted to marry our kids off to each other so we could spend our Christmases together for the rest of our lives and combine to embarass them all by getting drunk and singing at family functions - it's still a good plan.)
I blame all those grabby, brash women who would leap at my blue-eyed, blonde-headed darling from across crowded shopping centres.
"Oh he's so lovely!" They'd squeal.
Then he'd thrash in their arms and headbutt them and they'd get a better idea of what lay beneath the surface.
But today, for the briefest moment he leaned his soft, chubby cheek up against mine and clasped his strong little arms around my neck.
It was lovely - a 'madonna and child' moment.
I crowed with pride and joy to the Man - "Look! I got a kiss!" I announced.
"Oh no, Mummy," the Boy replied.
"I was just wiping my dribble on you."
Kids - who'd have 'em.
How about you guys?
Want one?
Only slightly used, although a little bit sticky and damp but nice to look at - from a distance.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
The Colours of Ken Done
I saw the most beautiful thing last night.
Walking back to work a handful of galahs flew overhead and the red of the sunset reflected off their pink breasts turning them a vivid, resonating magenta.
It was breathtaking - and as glaring as a Ken Done creation.
When I think of grey I think of suits and offices and dull, Wintery skies - amazing how nature can find a way to create the kind of contrast that makes grey 'sing'.
When I get home the Galahs will be stripping my almond trees and clicking and cackling all night - but I'll appreciate them a little more after seeing what I saw last night.
Walking back to work a handful of galahs flew overhead and the red of the sunset reflected off their pink breasts turning them a vivid, resonating magenta.
It was breathtaking - and as glaring as a Ken Done creation.
When I think of grey I think of suits and offices and dull, Wintery skies - amazing how nature can find a way to create the kind of contrast that makes grey 'sing'.
When I get home the Galahs will be stripping my almond trees and clicking and cackling all night - but I'll appreciate them a little more after seeing what I saw last night.
Monday, December 06, 2004
The House That Jack...Added Bits Onto
You've heard of 'the house that Jack built'.
Well this is the house that Jack added bits onto and never quite got around to finishing but just dodgied up a little, here and there and behind that wall.
Boy, are the local tradesmen going to luuurve us by the end of our 10 years of renovating.
Really should have taken up my old Sparkie friend on his offer of an affair - I'd have working powerpoints in all rooms by now. Wonder if my Builder/Landscaper friend is feeling a bit lonely...If I can just find a Plumber then I'll have the whole set and The Man can just sit back, relax, and cook us all gourmet meals occasionally.
The lengths a girl will go to for a House & Garden home, eh?
Well this is the house that Jack added bits onto and never quite got around to finishing but just dodgied up a little, here and there and behind that wall.
Boy, are the local tradesmen going to luuurve us by the end of our 10 years of renovating.
Really should have taken up my old Sparkie friend on his offer of an affair - I'd have working powerpoints in all rooms by now. Wonder if my Builder/Landscaper friend is feeling a bit lonely...If I can just find a Plumber then I'll have the whole set and The Man can just sit back, relax, and cook us all gourmet meals occasionally.
The lengths a girl will go to for a House & Garden home, eh?
The Farm - The Truth Revealed
You do know that The Farm really isn't a farm, don't you?
It's two big, old-fashioned house blocks side by side in the middle of retired farmers and wheatfields.
On one block is a ramshackle old cottage.
On the other is our ramshackle but not-so-old pug-wall-and-cinder house with it's little 1950s and 1970s additions.
When we bought it we knew the floors were going and the plumbing was dodgy and the electrics were 'modified' - but we were buoyed by the knowledge that the yards were huge, the trees were big and it was a real little stone farmhouse.
All our parents - mine and The Man's - were just horrified by the amount of work we had to do just to make it, well, if not liveable (because, let's face it - that's not a hard requirement to fulfill - all you really need is running water and a solid roof and you're one-up on most of Rwanda's residents) at least visitable without huge embarassment.
We laughed, told them we were young, had years ahead of us to get the work done.
I feel so old right now.
And frankly, when you're as old as I feel, you really need to not be shovelling the plaster from your newly-revealed stone walls off your ugly orange carpet.
That carpet - it's a nightmare!
And, let's face it, it'll be here until the walls, the windows and the bathroom are all done.
The orange and brown carpet came as part of a matching set of 'nostalgia' colours - avocado-green flocked wallpaper in the lounge, orange melamine in the kitchen and brown wood panelling over the top of anything that might, just possibly, have needed painting one day by the former owner.
He ran greyhounds - have I mentioned that?
So our beautiful view of the Southern Flinders Ranges is currently obscured by 30 greyhound kennels made from old redwood sleepers (...won't they be great if we recycle them and plane them up for the kitchen benches? Oh yeah, sure...in the year 2009!) and corrugated iron.
On the bright side - we've got our own rendering house to boil down whole cows and a little yard that, for some reason, is full of old sheep bones.
That - I'd suggest - is taking hoarding just a little too far.
We're currently living in a little corner of our house, chipping away at the rooms we can spare.
We're living in a little corner of our property, because, let's face it, the rest of it is a deathtrap of rusty iron and dog-bones.
Good thing I'm living away one week out of two or we'd just bust out of the place in stir-craziness.
This is what real estate agents refer to as a 'real doer-upperer' with 'lots of potential'.
Next time you're reading the Real Estate adverts, remember...you have been warned.
It's two big, old-fashioned house blocks side by side in the middle of retired farmers and wheatfields.
On one block is a ramshackle old cottage.
On the other is our ramshackle but not-so-old pug-wall-and-cinder house with it's little 1950s and 1970s additions.
When we bought it we knew the floors were going and the plumbing was dodgy and the electrics were 'modified' - but we were buoyed by the knowledge that the yards were huge, the trees were big and it was a real little stone farmhouse.
All our parents - mine and The Man's - were just horrified by the amount of work we had to do just to make it, well, if not liveable (because, let's face it - that's not a hard requirement to fulfill - all you really need is running water and a solid roof and you're one-up on most of Rwanda's residents) at least visitable without huge embarassment.
We laughed, told them we were young, had years ahead of us to get the work done.
I feel so old right now.
And frankly, when you're as old as I feel, you really need to not be shovelling the plaster from your newly-revealed stone walls off your ugly orange carpet.
That carpet - it's a nightmare!
And, let's face it, it'll be here until the walls, the windows and the bathroom are all done.
The orange and brown carpet came as part of a matching set of 'nostalgia' colours - avocado-green flocked wallpaper in the lounge, orange melamine in the kitchen and brown wood panelling over the top of anything that might, just possibly, have needed painting one day by the former owner.
He ran greyhounds - have I mentioned that?
So our beautiful view of the Southern Flinders Ranges is currently obscured by 30 greyhound kennels made from old redwood sleepers (...won't they be great if we recycle them and plane them up for the kitchen benches? Oh yeah, sure...in the year 2009!) and corrugated iron.
On the bright side - we've got our own rendering house to boil down whole cows and a little yard that, for some reason, is full of old sheep bones.
That - I'd suggest - is taking hoarding just a little too far.
We're currently living in a little corner of our house, chipping away at the rooms we can spare.
We're living in a little corner of our property, because, let's face it, the rest of it is a deathtrap of rusty iron and dog-bones.
Good thing I'm living away one week out of two or we'd just bust out of the place in stir-craziness.
This is what real estate agents refer to as a 'real doer-upperer' with 'lots of potential'.
Next time you're reading the Real Estate adverts, remember...you have been warned.
A Whole Lot of Holes
We've owned The Farm for nine months now.
More than 50 per cent of the family has lived here, almost full-time, for at least four months now.
And what have we achieved? A whole lot of holes.
A hole in the floor where we ripped up the crapped-out floorboards.
A hole in the wall where we ripped off the ugly pretend-wood panelling and found a fireplace.
A hole in the front yard which will, eventually, one day, become a herb garden and front path.
A hole in the skyline where we ripped out four or five trees.
A hole in the ground where our anerobic oh-so-ecologically-sound septic system will, eventually, go.
A hole in the bank balance where our two full-time you-beaut pays used to go.
I must have a hole in the head!
I keep saying this place is a 10-year project - you bet it is!
It'll be 10 years of work before we can piss off somewhere else and rent it out to some other poor sucker.
What have we achieved in four months?
We've killed a few chooks and a whole lot of earwigs.
We've grown a lot of corn and peas - turns out they're the only things that will survive the earwigs and chooks we didn't manage to kill.
On the plus side, The Kids have survived, as has The Dog and my marriage - despite the twin-ravages of working away and renovating.
On the other hand, other survivors include a possum, a family of feral cats (but only narrowly, thanks to The Dog's zero-tolerance policy for felines), a lot of onion weed and a family of spoggies in The Cottage next door.
Of course, the one thing we haven't managed to kill is our optimism.
It's not Turkey but it should get us through Christmas anyway.
More than 50 per cent of the family has lived here, almost full-time, for at least four months now.
And what have we achieved? A whole lot of holes.
A hole in the floor where we ripped up the crapped-out floorboards.
A hole in the wall where we ripped off the ugly pretend-wood panelling and found a fireplace.
A hole in the front yard which will, eventually, one day, become a herb garden and front path.
A hole in the skyline where we ripped out four or five trees.
A hole in the ground where our anerobic oh-so-ecologically-sound septic system will, eventually, go.
A hole in the bank balance where our two full-time you-beaut pays used to go.
I must have a hole in the head!
I keep saying this place is a 10-year project - you bet it is!
It'll be 10 years of work before we can piss off somewhere else and rent it out to some other poor sucker.
What have we achieved in four months?
We've killed a few chooks and a whole lot of earwigs.
We've grown a lot of corn and peas - turns out they're the only things that will survive the earwigs and chooks we didn't manage to kill.
On the plus side, The Kids have survived, as has The Dog and my marriage - despite the twin-ravages of working away and renovating.
On the other hand, other survivors include a possum, a family of feral cats (but only narrowly, thanks to The Dog's zero-tolerance policy for felines), a lot of onion weed and a family of spoggies in The Cottage next door.
Of course, the one thing we haven't managed to kill is our optimism.
It's not Turkey but it should get us through Christmas anyway.
One Great Big Mousehole
We've got mice.
No, I know it's not surprising considering we're bordered on three sides by wheat fields, we've just pulled up the entire floor in two rooms making it one great big mousehole, and The Kids think that popcorn is best enjoyed through the soles of their feet (one for me, one for the carpet fairies).
I'm a pseudo-country girl - that means I always lived in country towns without every having to actually feed anything, grow anything or muck out behind anything (until I had kids that is).
I know mice are normal in the country - like lice in kindergarteners, no one talks about them but they're there and whether you use Quellada or pumpkin-seed-and-chocolate-baited traps - you're really not making a dent in the population, you're just redirecting it to the corner behind the stove where there's over-flowed pasta (or, in keeping with the metaphor, to that feral kid down the block).
In fact - if you believe in Darwinism, you're actually improving the species.
Kill off the dumb ones, the naive ones, the greedy ones, and leave just the smart ones to breed.
It explains all that footage in old Australian docos where you watch the mouse tight-rope along the string and drag the stick of Metwurst up into nibbling range.
It's an Uber-Mouse.
Either that or it's one of Mrs Frisby's Rats of NIMH!
So, we've got mice.
And while I pride myself on my innate anti-girliness I am, just now, sitting here blogging to the flamenco beat of mousetraps going off like a 21-gun-salute two rooms over in the kitchen.
And I'm NOT going in to finish off the dishes.
Not tonight.
My Man will, in the morning, dispose of their little furry corpses and pretend he doesn't think it's funny that I squirm at the idea of unlocking their little bodies from their wire and willow death-traps.
It's not that I won't empty a mousetrap, or that I can't.
It's just that after 10 years of ups and downs and both of us pretending to be independent but just becoming more and more twined around each other - filling in each other's least-favourite jobs by handing over one of our own - I've decided that manly mouse-disposal is one of those 'ups'.
He told me himself, last night, that he was happy to do it - as long as I continued in my role as spider-killer-in-chief.
Ever seen a grown man squeal like a little girl?
Well, yes I have, but that's actually another story.
While I'd surely take literary advantage of it if The Man danced on the spot like Jennifer Beal in Flashdance every time he saw a spider, the truth is I didn't even know about his phobia for, oooh, maybe three years.
I was leaving the shower of the old farmhouse we were living in, towel-wrapped, and in a truly sexist but off-hand way asked him to get rid of the spider in the bath.
His reply was short and succinct.
'No.'
Not 'Can't you do it yourself?' or 'I'm busy' - just a frozen, definite 'No'.
I don't tease him often about it, especially now that The Girl has inherited the phobia (or absorbed it like Osmosis), but I think he enjoys the quiet smugness of cleaning up my little rodent victims.
At least I hope he does.
Because there's two more waiting for him right now on either side of a day's worth of dishes.
No, I know it's not surprising considering we're bordered on three sides by wheat fields, we've just pulled up the entire floor in two rooms making it one great big mousehole, and The Kids think that popcorn is best enjoyed through the soles of their feet (one for me, one for the carpet fairies).
I'm a pseudo-country girl - that means I always lived in country towns without every having to actually feed anything, grow anything or muck out behind anything (until I had kids that is).
I know mice are normal in the country - like lice in kindergarteners, no one talks about them but they're there and whether you use Quellada or pumpkin-seed-and-chocolate-baited traps - you're really not making a dent in the population, you're just redirecting it to the corner behind the stove where there's over-flowed pasta (or, in keeping with the metaphor, to that feral kid down the block).
In fact - if you believe in Darwinism, you're actually improving the species.
Kill off the dumb ones, the naive ones, the greedy ones, and leave just the smart ones to breed.
It explains all that footage in old Australian docos where you watch the mouse tight-rope along the string and drag the stick of Metwurst up into nibbling range.
It's an Uber-Mouse.
Either that or it's one of Mrs Frisby's Rats of NIMH!
So, we've got mice.
And while I pride myself on my innate anti-girliness I am, just now, sitting here blogging to the flamenco beat of mousetraps going off like a 21-gun-salute two rooms over in the kitchen.
And I'm NOT going in to finish off the dishes.
Not tonight.
My Man will, in the morning, dispose of their little furry corpses and pretend he doesn't think it's funny that I squirm at the idea of unlocking their little bodies from their wire and willow death-traps.
It's not that I won't empty a mousetrap, or that I can't.
It's just that after 10 years of ups and downs and both of us pretending to be independent but just becoming more and more twined around each other - filling in each other's least-favourite jobs by handing over one of our own - I've decided that manly mouse-disposal is one of those 'ups'.
He told me himself, last night, that he was happy to do it - as long as I continued in my role as spider-killer-in-chief.
Ever seen a grown man squeal like a little girl?
Well, yes I have, but that's actually another story.
While I'd surely take literary advantage of it if The Man danced on the spot like Jennifer Beal in Flashdance every time he saw a spider, the truth is I didn't even know about his phobia for, oooh, maybe three years.
I was leaving the shower of the old farmhouse we were living in, towel-wrapped, and in a truly sexist but off-hand way asked him to get rid of the spider in the bath.
His reply was short and succinct.
'No.'
Not 'Can't you do it yourself?' or 'I'm busy' - just a frozen, definite 'No'.
I don't tease him often about it, especially now that The Girl has inherited the phobia (or absorbed it like Osmosis), but I think he enjoys the quiet smugness of cleaning up my little rodent victims.
At least I hope he does.
Because there's two more waiting for him right now on either side of a day's worth of dishes.
Genetics - Pre-Destined Disaster
My son is scaring the daylights out of me.
I always had a little smug part of me which would whisper, quietly, (very quietly, because I'm brutally aware of what happens to mortals who tempt fate) that my children, though very full-on and loud, were rarely naughty or cruel.
I'd compare The Boy to other little boys he'd play alongside in the sandpit who just couldn't understand the concept of 'boundaries' - whether they be garden borders or road-side pavements.
I still believe that's true - that my kids are good, nice kids (and loud, and full-on - I'm biased not delusional) but my son has discovered that the grass is a whole lot more interesting on the other side of those boundaries.
It all boils down to genetics, I've decided.
My in-laws love to tell the stories of The Man as a boy, and his earliest beginnings as a chef.
Seems one morning, during the weekly Saturday sleep-in, he decided to barbecue a family breakfast - in his sister's toybox, right alongside his infant sister's bed.
The Man's mother woke soon after the 'barbecue' blossomed out of control (insert images here of raging inferno black with the viscous smoke of cheap plastic toys melting into the carpet).
When they had stemmed the inferno they found char-grilled carrots and potatoes in the remains of the Holly Hobbie toybox.
I had a vision of the whole story, larger than life, when I found The Boy microwaving a slice of left-over pizza for 15 minutes this morning.
Then there's the story of The Man (and remember, these are all four-year-old stories - and my son is now, you guessed it, four) who was helping water the garden early one morning.
His mother had wandered inside while he hosed the front-yard roses and geraniums (more on the self-fulfilling prophecy of old-lady plants another day) when he caught sight of the family's new neighbour.
A curious and friendly little boy, he decided to introduce himself, and walked out onto the path and back in through the neighbour's front door - hose in hand.
Yesterday, my son pulled out all the dirty clothes from our new touch-button front-load washing machine, threw in his dirty jocks, and started the machine (the delicates cycle, would you believe? trust me - he needed the heavy-duty soak program for those skidmarks).
A few days ago I caught him digging his fruit toast out of the toaster with a plastic knife.
He started his own museum where he was storing eggs from the chicken coop in an old baking pan behind the water tank.
They'd gone blue!
Then, tonight, after deciding to take a new tack (the tried-and-true one of jumping up and down, screaming like a Glenside patient and threatening to take away his future pocket-money until he was old enough to get a part-time job was wearing a little thin on us all) and making a pact to explain myself better when I told The Kids 'yes' or 'no', I lined the pair of them up and explained mouse traps and why we shouldn't touch them.
I explained that we had mice at the moment and that, no, a cat wasn't the best option to get rid of them, not even a cute, cuddly, ginger kitten from The Girl's friend at school who had let her touch it and hold it and it was so fluffy...whew! I'll stop there. Trust me, The Girl didn't.
I sprung the trap in front of them with a chopstick and, satisfied by their shocked jump-backs, felt safe in the knowledge that they wouldn't touch the nasty little salami-baited monsters.
But tonight, after dinner, I found The Boy - in true Virgo fashion - collecting all the moustraps up and lining them together to make a more effective trap.
And next week, my Dad is going to take him fishing...
If he survives the holidays, I'm not sure I will.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
If he was related to The Boy or The Man it was to play with the razorblades and plastic bags on the other side.
I always had a little smug part of me which would whisper, quietly, (very quietly, because I'm brutally aware of what happens to mortals who tempt fate) that my children, though very full-on and loud, were rarely naughty or cruel.
I'd compare The Boy to other little boys he'd play alongside in the sandpit who just couldn't understand the concept of 'boundaries' - whether they be garden borders or road-side pavements.
I still believe that's true - that my kids are good, nice kids (and loud, and full-on - I'm biased not delusional) but my son has discovered that the grass is a whole lot more interesting on the other side of those boundaries.
It all boils down to genetics, I've decided.
My in-laws love to tell the stories of The Man as a boy, and his earliest beginnings as a chef.
Seems one morning, during the weekly Saturday sleep-in, he decided to barbecue a family breakfast - in his sister's toybox, right alongside his infant sister's bed.
The Man's mother woke soon after the 'barbecue' blossomed out of control (insert images here of raging inferno black with the viscous smoke of cheap plastic toys melting into the carpet).
When they had stemmed the inferno they found char-grilled carrots and potatoes in the remains of the Holly Hobbie toybox.
I had a vision of the whole story, larger than life, when I found The Boy microwaving a slice of left-over pizza for 15 minutes this morning.
Then there's the story of The Man (and remember, these are all four-year-old stories - and my son is now, you guessed it, four) who was helping water the garden early one morning.
His mother had wandered inside while he hosed the front-yard roses and geraniums (more on the self-fulfilling prophecy of old-lady plants another day) when he caught sight of the family's new neighbour.
A curious and friendly little boy, he decided to introduce himself, and walked out onto the path and back in through the neighbour's front door - hose in hand.
Yesterday, my son pulled out all the dirty clothes from our new touch-button front-load washing machine, threw in his dirty jocks, and started the machine (the delicates cycle, would you believe? trust me - he needed the heavy-duty soak program for those skidmarks).
A few days ago I caught him digging his fruit toast out of the toaster with a plastic knife.
He started his own museum where he was storing eggs from the chicken coop in an old baking pan behind the water tank.
They'd gone blue!
Then, tonight, after deciding to take a new tack (the tried-and-true one of jumping up and down, screaming like a Glenside patient and threatening to take away his future pocket-money until he was old enough to get a part-time job was wearing a little thin on us all) and making a pact to explain myself better when I told The Kids 'yes' or 'no', I lined the pair of them up and explained mouse traps and why we shouldn't touch them.
I explained that we had mice at the moment and that, no, a cat wasn't the best option to get rid of them, not even a cute, cuddly, ginger kitten from The Girl's friend at school who had let her touch it and hold it and it was so fluffy...whew! I'll stop there. Trust me, The Girl didn't.
I sprung the trap in front of them with a chopstick and, satisfied by their shocked jump-backs, felt safe in the knowledge that they wouldn't touch the nasty little salami-baited monsters.
But tonight, after dinner, I found The Boy - in true Virgo fashion - collecting all the moustraps up and lining them together to make a more effective trap.
And next week, my Dad is going to take him fishing...
If he survives the holidays, I'm not sure I will.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
If he was related to The Boy or The Man it was to play with the razorblades and plastic bags on the other side.
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