Some people have lazy Sundays. People with toddlers don't. Doesn't bother me, though; instead of watching football from the comfort of my couch, I'm out playing it with my little fellas.
Hmmm, I'm about one fifth of the way to having a full team. Maybe it's time for Zoe and I to have a little chat*.
(*About me taking a trip to the doctor so that ridiculous ideas like trying for a full team become null and void...)
Tom escapes his cage...
...and makes an astounding discovery: sky.
First, stupification...
...then adulation. All hail sky!
Bob the car washing guy has already taken me to be the sucker I really am. He knows that I'm the one to speak to on Saturdays when he comes round to do the car. He cottoned on in record time that if he speaks to Zoe, he won't be able to charge 4 times the going rate. Or use our phone to make international calls. Or relax in my armchair while I gather together cleaning materials for him (that I had to buy).
Following our little debacle last week, Bob knows that I'm even more easy game than usual, and he clearly intends to get as much mileage out that fact as possible. So it was no surprise that when Zoe answers the door to him yesterday, he immediately asks to speak to me. Hanging fire until Zoe is well out of earshot, he proceeds to not only ask for the equivalent of a Doctor's hourly wage to spend 10 minutes hosing my car, but he actually asks me to give him money towards buying a house!
"Don't worry," smirks Bob, "I only need $38,000".
"Wait there," I whisper. "I'll just go and get my wallet. D'you want cash or a cheque...?"
My one time sanctuary (the living room):
The Blitz, London 1940:
I detest you, Wiggles, but thank you.
In order of priority, I live for:
1. Family
2. Adventure sports and travel
3. The West Wing
Those who know me, know that I am not imbued with the gift of patience. In a very rare and monumental feat of self control, I've managed to avoid watching any West Wing on TV so I can watch it all on DVD. In one sitting. And when it does come out on DVD, West Wing will take pole position in the above list.
Zoe, who (to my utter disdain) does not like the West Wing, has somehow seen the final episode. And is itching to tell me how it all ends. My world will come crashing down around me if she does. It's like waiting for the bullet to hit, and like a torturess, she delights in it.
Tom makes a quick escape after hurling one of daddy's golf balls at the neighbour's pride and joy, her brand new Mercedes.
And then, upon appearance of the horrified neighbour, in an instant and without a flicker of remorse, points the finger of blame squarely at me.
Evidence in hand, and betrayed by my own flesh and blood, I can do nothing to stop the look of guilt that quickly settles over my face.
We have a guy,'Bob', who comes round to wash our car every week. Now Bob's a nice guy and he charges us pennies for toiling away in the hot sun and removing a week's worth of toddler debris and half of the Caribbean's beaches from the back seats. The problem is, Bob bangs on the door every 5 minutes asking for more soap, water, new rags, to use the phone, go to the toilet, read my books, watch my DVDs, borrow my wife and so on, and so on, ad infinitum. Now, perhaps I'm being uncharitable, but on Sunday, the day after my hikeathon, I simply couldn't be bothered to get up from my armchair every three minutes for an hour to face his requests. Add to this the fact that I was wearing only my underwear. As is my wont (because it's damn hot here). So when Bob knocked politely on the door, I quickly turned the TV down and ignored him. I then smugly sank back into my armchair thinking he would politely disappear when he was suckered into thinking no-one was at home.
Mistake number one: I should have realised by now that one of Bob's more admirable traits is perseverance. He's a firm proponent of Hickson's maxim, "If at first you don't succeed..."
Mistake number two: I had taught Max how to answer the door last week.
The next farcical ten minutes went something like this:
[Polite knocks quickly escalate to banging]
Max: "Daddy..."
Me: "Ssssshhhhhhhh...."
Max: "DADDY....!"
[Banging stops; Bob's smelt a rat]
[Banging resumes and increases exponentially. Bob's breached the moat and and has deployed the battering ram]
Max waves bye bye Barney and makes for the front door in slow motion.
Me: Much flapping of arms and silent mouthing of "NOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Max: The look says it all. What's your problem Daddy? We always open the door when someone knocks.
I'm powerless to stop him because I'm crippled from yesterday's stroll. Max reaches for the door handle and I have two choices:
1. Stay seated, in my underwear, and face the music (Bob will be able to see me from the front door).
2. Hide.
I quickly decide on option 2 and crawl into the alcove under the stairs. The banging stops as the door creaks open.
Bob: "Hello. Where's Daddy?"
Max: "...." (Oh, now you've lost your voice, you little tyke...?)
Bob: "Hello! HELLO! HEEEEEEEEEEELOOOOOOOOOO!"
I'm now in a classic Catch 22 situation. If I reveal myself, Bob will know I've been hiding from him. If I don't reveal myself, Bob will join the rest of the neighbourhood in thinking we're neglectful parents because we leave our 2 and 1 year olds to fend for themselves. As I'm trying to come to terms with my predicament and think of a cunning way to extricate myself from it, Max quickly rules out the neglectful parent option. He comes back down the hall and he looks from Bob, to me and back to Bob. And then the finger of God rises and Max points towards my hiding place. Rumbled.
Out I crawl. Bob has a victorious smile on his face.
Me: "I was, er, just looking for Max's playdoh..."
Bob: "Want your car washed?"
Me: "I'll just get the bucket for you."
I'm ecstatic today because Tom reached a crucial milestone this morning. Forget the usual walking, talking, toilet-training milestones. Swimming is far more important as far as I'm concerned. You don't need to know how to speak properly to get on the ASP (professional surfers) World Tour. In fact, it probably helps if you can't. And Tom took his first step towards the ASP today by happily de-clinging from his mum in the pool. He may have spun round in circles and starting sinking after a few minutes, but he's got his confidence and that's what matters.
Those pro surfers earn a packet and start early these days, so I'm thinking that if Tom is on the tour by the time he's 15, I'll be able to retire by the time I'm 43. Nice. I'm thinking Hawaii. Or maybe the Seychelles.
