Tag: family life

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Staring out of the window, I make a mental note: “Don’t, under any circumstances, let anyone find out about this.”

FIVE HOURS EARLIER

“Of all the types of rock,” drones the bore, “I like punk the best.”
Of all the types of rock? I give him a look which says, “you clearly know nothing about music.” But despite this, he carries on regardless. Soon I know his opinions on everything and they are more or less uniformly deplorable.

I choose to break in to his monologue with a left field idea: “If you don’t have a lanyard,” I ask, “do you even have a job?” This throws him, and leaves him searching for words, thus clearing the way for me to the exit the conversation without having to engage in an act of violence – something I had hitherto found myself almost ready for.

The conversation now effectively over, I’m now able to mingle, which is something I’m keen to avoid. Instead I make my way to the kitchen where my wife is holding a mason jar with home made pickled cabbage in it. Her arm is outstretched and she has the appearance of an actor playing Hamlet, holding the skull of Yorick. On the outside of the jar there is white substance which she is looking at suspiciously. “That looks fine.” I say. “It’s just a chemical reaction.”

She continues to look at the jar, before swivelling her head to turn a laser like gaze on to me. “You have a way of saying things,” she says, “which makes it sound like you know what you are talking about, but when you think about what you’ve just said, they don’t make any sense.”

I am undone. Bluffing has got me all the way to 43, but now what? The smokescreen has at last been pierced, and people know. They know.

I’m still thinking the same thought as I stand in front of the window. How many other people know, maybe they all know. Or maybe only one person knows. How do I know?

I’m still standing there thinking the same thing when my wife comes in to the room. “Everything ok?” She says. “I was just thinking,” I reply. “I was thinking that at times like these, I wish I had listened to what my Chemistry teacher used to say.” “Why?” She asks. “What did she say?”

I turn to her with a baleful gaze. “I don’t know. I didn’t listen.”

Original image by Fidlerjan on Morguefile.com Used under Creative Commons.

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The meeting was called by the youngest member of the family, and stern faced we all gathered to face the matter at hand.

“I want to start off by saying,” the youngest remarked, staring at me, “that this is your fault.”

It was a bit early for recriminations to begin, there is usually a bit of to-ing and fro-ing before the mud starts to truly fly.

“I don’t think we need to apportion any blame,” said my wife, at which point I shot her an appreciative glance.

“Yet.” She continued. I looked at my hands.

“The situation is critical.” The eldest, until now silent decided to chip in. Usually she can be relied upon to fight the good fight. Not today.

“Stocks are really low.” She said.

“I’m sorry, stocks?” I said. Feeling slightly confused.

“Socks.” She shouted. “Socks are getting really low. There is hardly any clean underwear anywhere. There are about three socks in my drawer, and none of them match. One is a sports sock, one is a hiking sock, and one is a sock that doesn’t even belong to me.”

“You could wear the sports sock and the hiking sock together…” I began to suggest. I was fixed with a withering glare.

“What I want to know is, how has this happened.” The youngest, my original accuser was back at the crease, aiming to hit a six. Or failing that, a four, so long as it really made the fielder run.

“It’s the weather!” I said, in a desperate attempt to defend myself. “The wretched weather, it’s been hopeless. And then whenever I do manage to get clothes on the line, the birds use them as a latrine.”

“Oh and that’s why none of us have got any clean underwear? Get real.”

While her sister had been viciously attacking me, the eldest had quietly made her way to my top drawer.

“Look at this!” She yelled. “Loads of pants! He’s got loads of pants in here. There’s literally… loads.”

“This is why he shouldn’t be allowed to do the laundry.” Announced the youngest. Because he prioritises his own underwear, so that he’s always got boxer shorts, but we have nothing.”

“I don’t, it’s just…” I said, my voice beginning to trail away as I realised I couldn’t explain this anomaly. Perhaps, I thought, my best defense was to go on the attack. “The reason I have plenty of clean underwear” I announced, “is that I put it directly in the wash every day. I don’t leave it on my bedroom floor and then gather it up in a great big load and expect it to be washed immediately.”

“We all do that.” The youngest hissed. “We all do that, because we know that if we don’t, then we won’t have any underwear. And despite that, despite us playing by the rules, we’re still in the same position.”

“It’s not a question of rules…” I began, but even I knew it was feeble. My attack had been neutralised, my excuses have come to nothing. “I’ll get a wash done this morning. I will wash all the underwear that’s in the basket.”

The family meeting broke up, my wife went to work, and I retreated to the bathroom, where I looked into the mouth of the laundry basket. I pressed a corner of the lid, and it spat a sock at me.

As I stood there the door opened, a girl put some more clothes into the basket. “These need washing too.” She said. Outside a bird squawked. “Bring on the latrine!” And I heard the pitter patter of raindrops begin to hit the window.

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It’s Wednesday morning, and I’m up early. As usual.
“I shall use this time productively.” I think to myself, reaching for the remote control.

An hour or so later, I hear the stairs creak. My wife opens the sitting room door.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” She says.
“Yes.” I say, fixing her with a stare which communicates the great importance of what I am doing.
“What are you watching?”
“It’s based on a true story. Which means it’s a kind of research.”
“Right.”
“So it’s a productive thing to spend time on.”
“Right.”
“They had good hats in those days, didn’t they.”

The door shuts.
And reopens a few minutes later, for the cup of tea to be passed to me.
“I’m still researching.”
“Right.”
“So if you need me, you’ll know where I am.”
“Yes I will.”

Later in the day I yawn. “I need a nap.”
“You should have slept later.”
“I had research to do. Anyway, naps are good for you.”
“Who told you that?”
“I can’t remember it, I seem to remember reading it somewhere.”
“Or was it in a film…”
“Films can be legitimate forms of research.”
“Right.”