» Addicted

Bah fuckin humbug ...
God what a depressing QOTW a week out from Christmas.

So here's a late entry for Cringe.

My mother slipped in the shower and fractured her L4 vertebra. Well that's Christmas scunnered.

The inconsiderate cow.

Anyway, I have recently spent many frantic hours in our nearest A&E trying to amuse two little girls, aged 5 and 2, for fuck knows how long.

They were well entertained by an impromptu blow-up latex glove puppet show for a bit, much to the amusement of my fellow waiting room internees.

Now this particular hospital also happens to be the war veterans hospital. So that moment all parents dread was just around the corner.

You know the one I'm talking about.

The moment when an amputee comes within the range of your child's curious gaze. My first born child reacted with bemused but silent interest in the elderly (WW2?) veteran who sat close-by. He had lost his left arm just below the elbow.

The nurse called us in to talk about my Mum.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Just as we were mustering ourselves, 5yo politely asks the elderly amputee "Excuse me, but what happened to your arm?"

CRINGE!!!

He gave this beetroot faced poster a wry grin and beckoned 5yo girl closer. He then said in a low voice.

"I was picking my nose."

The look of utter horror on my wee one's face was just magic.

I then had to talk to a nurse about my mother's need for back surgery whilst trying not to wee myself from suppressed giggles.

Merry Christmas all you loverly B3tans.
(Mon 22nd Dec 2008, 2:30, More)

» Family codes and rituals

My mad arse Granddad
Was quite the bastard, but that is a horse of a different colour.

At last count he had 5 sprogs (all married), 12 grand-sprogs (all in some stage of marriage/divorce or on/off de-facto-hood) and 18 great-grand-sprogs.

One mighty Clan-Gathering Christmas, there happened to be three pregnant women present. The poor old bugger was surrounded by sprogs, grandsprogs, lots of their spouses and great grandsproglets.

He loudly interjected in the spirited conversation about possible baby names for the three imminent additions to his already mighty brood with the following classic line:

"RIGHT! That's it! There are too damn many of you. I can't be having with remembering all these bloody names at my time of life. So henceforth I do declare that any female decendants of mine will be addressed as MAUD and any males will be addressed as HAROLD!"

And so it was. Luckily, none of us actually have the misfortune to be called Maud or Harold. So at every Clan gathering ever since, Granddad makes no attempt to remember your name. He just shouts "MAUD" or "HAROLD" at his nearest (great)grandsprog and sends the unfortunate child to fetch him another beer.
(Tue 25th Nov 2008, 5:20, More)

» School Days

I am definately going to hell for ...
scunnering the school nativity play.

In my defense yurunnah I was 8 and put a smaller kid up to it rather than dirty my own lily white paws.

One of the younger lads at school, a friend of the family and budding thespian, was dead keen on winning the part of Joseph in the nativity play. And sorely wrathful was he when the part went to the snot-nosed, myopic, mumbling spawn of the Art teacher.

I was outraged at this blatant nepotism and my own paltry part as a bunny. So being the budding Machiavellian I was, I set about to wreck the nativity play, seizing upon my younger playmate's crushed ego to accomplish the task.

The night of the play arrived. All the bored looking mums and dads were duly seated. The Art teacher was fussing over the ludicrous headpiece she had made for her numpty part-stealing son.

My pawn had been given the part of the Innkeeper.

I looked on, from under my ridiculous bunny headdress recycled from last Easter's bonnet parade.

Numpty Art teacher spawn and wee lassie with a mighty cushion shoved up her dress enter stage left.

They approach the Innkeeper.

"Mumble mumble cough splutter ... come all the way from Bethelehem for the census ... mumble, cough, wheeze ... missus great with child ... cough, splutter ... got any rooms for the night?"

"Bags of room. Come on in."

Result.
(Mon 2nd Feb 2009, 4:06, More)

» Eccentrics

My Dad ...
bless him. He's an old school Glaswegian who says he grew up with Billy Conolly (true) and that he can sing like Perry Como (utterly false).

His eccentricities are too numerous to mention in full, but my favourite is his "I fucking win" card when in conversation/argument with his offspring.

Once played, the "I fucking win" card stops all objections, come-backs and conversation for the next hour or so.

The card is: "I'M FUCKING YOUR MOTHER!"
(Wed 5th Nov 2008, 4:11, More)

» The Dark

Like several other b3tans ...
I have a few stories of children's night terrors to regale.

My 5yo daughter sufferered from them with rotten, red-eyed consistency for exactly 18 months. There was a bewildering array of innocent imaginary monsters, the likes of which Tim Burton with a head full of acid, couldn't imagine.

Dream bugs ... the size of a penny. If they were red, they were bringing a bad dream. If they were green, they were bringing a good dream. She once placed a used cupcake paper on her nightstand. When questioned, she replied that it was a meteor detector. And she was convinced that a purple fucking dinosaur lived under the stairs. Then, by complete coincidence, some idiot in-law gave her a Barney doll. She damn near shat herself, right under the Christmas tree, and burst into tears.

But the piece-de-la-resistance was her fear of being chopped to tiny pieces by her ceiling fan. I would loving soothe the poor child with words of "For the love of God child! It's bolted to the bloody ceiling. You're fine. Get over it." It was just as effective as singing lullabies for 2 hours at 1:00am.

Sheesh.
(Sat 25th Jul 2009, 8:22, More)