Sunday, 26 August 2012

Of willies

There are occasional times when I forget that I'm directly responsible for Mr Jamie's genetic makeup. Then something like this occurs ... and it all comes flooding back ...

Morning. Early morning. Approx 6.30am. I am in the ensuite getting ready for work. Beth is asleep in bed next to Neil. Mr Jamie is having a wee. In the ensuite, thankfully, as opposed to the bed. He suddenly emerges from the bathroom and jumps on top of Neil to accost him.

"Daddy, who has the biggest willy in the world?"

In an attempt to avoid further conversation along these lines, Neil remains silent. Mr Jamie is not to be deterred.

"Is it me ... or is it Harry (Mr Jamie's 17 year old brother) ... or is it you?"

Neil buries his head further under the covers. Mr Jamie persists.

"My willy is MASSIVE. It is really big Daddy, it really is. Look at it, look at it, look at it."

It takes a brave man to ignore the sight of a penis thrusting in his face. Neil is that man.

"But then Harry's is even MASSIVER, isn't it?"

(Just to clarify: this is a reckoning derived entirely from Mr Jamie's imagination. We do not allow him to strip his brother naked, of that I can assure you. Still, kudos to Harry that he's clearly had such a mental impact.)

"But then Daddy?"

"WHAT Jamie?" (I knew he'd crack eventually.)

"Do you know who has got the MASSIVEST willy in the WHOLE WORLD?"

"Absolutely no idea."

"It's YOU Daddy, because your willy is big and huge and enormous and MAAAAAAAASSIVE, and so big that it doesn't even fit IN OUR HOUSE. It is HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGE."

Neil got up at that point. I reckon he was four parts terrified and eleven parts delighted.

Tuesday, 14 August 2012

Of airports

I'd like to tell you a little story. Because I am entirely vaguely pretentious, I shall do this through the medium of a play script. Picture the scene ...

An airport. Man, woman and two small children arrive. Woman has smallest child strapped to her chest and is using larger child as some sort of walking stick/support. Man has approximately 12,000 bags of varying weights and sizes hanging off nigh on every part of his anatomy.

Woman: Right, come on, it's this way.

Man: Are you sure? Do you want to check the boards?

Woman: Man, I have travelled before. I am aware of what you need to do. I have checked the boards, established the gate we need to go to, and now I am leading you towards it. Please stop doubting my abilities.

Man is silent, in no small part due to the amount of baggage surrounding his face. The foursome walk/stagger/fall towards the transit train, which will take them to the part of the terminal housing the identified gate. A train arrives. They board it. They arrive. They get off, and take the escalators up to the gate.

Woman: Up we go, it's just up here. Let me just check ... oh. That's a bit strange.

Man: What's strange?

Woman: Well, the board here says that the flight is going to Copenhagen. But our flight isn't going to Copenhagen. It's going to Bergerac.

Man: And you checked the board when we arrived?

Woman: YES Man. I told you. And it said Gate 1.

Man: And what else?

Woman: It said the 15:15 flight was going from Gate 1. And that's our flight.

Man: What is?

Woman: The 15:15 flight. Which is our one.

Man: [in slight disbelief] Did it not at any point possibly occur to you that there might be more than one flight at 15:15 ...?

Woman: [brushes this off] It's fine. We'll just go back the way we came and go to the right gate.

Man: [Sighs heavily]

The family attempt to descend the escalators, but realise they are one way only. They take the lift down to the ground floor, and realise the transit is also one way only. They are, essentially, screwed. The woman spots an 'emergency' phone attached to the wall and makes a beeline towards it.

Woman: Help. HELP. I am trapped in your airport and cannot get out and need you to tell me what to do. HEEEEELP.

Operator: Calm down madam. Whereabouts in the airport are you?

Woman: Trapped outside the transit at Gate 1. But I don't want Gate 1!

Operator: Riiiiiiight. So ... why are you there?

Woman: Because the 15:15 flight was going from there. Which is my flight. Except it isn't. I don't want to go to Copenhagen. I want to go to Bergerac.

Operator: Don't worry madam, we'll send someone to pick you up. Is it just you?

Woman: Me ... two small children ... my husband ... and about 12,000 bags ...

Two hours later ... the family are safely ensconsed on their 15:15 flight to Bergerac. Man and Woman are just about speaking again, after their 'rescue' which necessitated a security man driving a BUS collecting them from where they found themselves 'trapped' and driving them round the back of the airport and to the correct gate. Gate 45, for the record. So delayed were they in reaching their plane that Woman failed to have time for her essential pre-flight-pint-of-gin. Truely, a lesson has been learned ...

Worth it all though. When we got there ... THIS:

Happy days.

Saturday, 4 August 2012

Front Bottom ... GONE!

What can I say? I needed a post title to ensure I came back with a bang. Which may be an unfortunate turn of phrase, given said title, if your mind is as cluttered with filth as mine is. (I will try and remember to explain the post title before the end of this post. If I fail miserably to do so feel free to nudge me. Otherwise I may exceed my own record of levels of randomness.)

I am, indeed, back, not solely from a blogging hiatus but also from a week in Sandbanks, playground of the rich and, unfortunately for them, of my children for the past seven days. Rather than ramble on for twelve years about all that we did, here is a brief and well edited (ha!) summary, which succinctly (ha! x2) encapsulates the key features of the week:

Sand. It's bloody everywhere.

Olympics. Ditto. 'Tis v exciting though, full of men with poorly concealed willies (much to the hilarity of my small children, not to mention me) and Jessica Ennis, who I very much want to sleep with. It's a good job she doesn't know this.

Boxes. My god, Beth loves a good box. She's spent most of the week in one (at her own insistence, I hasten to add). Photographic evidence below:


Sunburn. Every. Fecking. Year. Factor 50. All over. Applied liberally. And STILL I end up looking like Rudolph the sodding red nosed reindeer. Tanning gracefully is clearly just Not My Thing.

The Bikini. See previous post. It was worn, it didn't fall off, and nobody keeled over through abject fear. Quite how it gets on in the South of France remains to be seen ...

WIIIIIIIIIIINE. Ouch, my liver.

Crazy Golf. Rules by Mr Jamie. "I think I'm just going to put my ball up here in the hole, because then it is easier to win. Hmmmm (after about 300 shots) ... I think I have got about 5 on this hole. Have I won yet?"

Jokes. Devised by Mr Jamie. Along the lines of the post from the other day. It's been a loooooooooooooooooooooong week.

Dawning Realisations. That horrible feeling when your children parrot back a phrase you know you must be subconsciously yelling at them at least 59 times a day in order for them to have memorised it so well. "BETH. Don't even THINK about it." Mr Jamie, to Beth, as she threatened to get in his bath. Wail.

All in all it's been absolutely lovely. And now I'm back and well rested I might even get back to blogging a bit more regularly for you. Think I'm making false promises? I arrived back home today to find a letter inviting me to my next smear test. One thing's for sure, there is never a lack of blog material in this household ...

Oh, and "Front Bottom ... GONE?!" Came courtesy of Beth, as her and I shared a bath the other night. She took great delight in pointing alternatively at our front bottoms and orating their names. (By which I mean 'front bottom'. We haven't actually gone and named them. Even my family isn't that odd.) The bath was running, which meant that gradually the bubbles rose up and covered our legs. And bottoms. Both front and back. At which point Beth (standing) looked down and went to point at my front bottom, only to note in horror its absence. "Front bottom. Gone. Gone. GONE. JAAAAAAAAAAMIE. Mummy. Front bottom. GONE!"

"Mummy, what is Beth telling me about? Why does she like front bottoms so much? And where has your one gone?"

Just another day of normality, chez us.

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