Ping went my phone yesterday while I reclined on the sofa, beside the sleeping greyhound, whose twitching paws suggested she was dreaming about squirrels. ‘What do you want for Mother’s Day?’ read the missive from The Small Child. (TSC)
Hmmm… what do I want. Indeed.
Well, I’d like it if she and her sister could deliver me their washing days before it has languished for days on their floor so it accumulates dust, fluff, hair, (both canine and human) and other unidentifiable detritus.
I’d LOVE it if they could stop leaving food stuffs in their room, in the many, many little containers I buy for fruit and sandwiches. Often, the appeal of these snacks dissipates when the aroma of sausage rolls hits their nostrils. These return home uneaten, only to be discovered by the dog who ferrets them out with the skill of a truffle hunting pig and munches through the plastic.
What I would really like though, is for the pair of them to address the globs and streaks of grime adhering to my kitchen tiles and dining table. Perhaps you are familiar with ‘NeeDohs’, which are (most ironically) designed with not just fun, but stress relief in mind. For the uninitiated, the fun stems from pulling and squeezing these for the craic, and looking on with amazement as they maintain intact. Intact but revolting, it must be said, as their greasy surface attracts a film of f**k only knows what. TSC had a grey one which looked like a sheep’s testicle. Despite being of an age to be past such nonsense, my kids had gathered quite the selection. I use the past tense, because all NeeDos are now in the bin, having been left on a radiator, where the bastard things sprung a leak. I’m assuming this was an accident, not some calculated plot to destroy my mental-health entirely. Out spewed forth their sticky innards, with industrial levels of adhesion. As a student at Queen’s, I always took myself to the poster fair in the union and treated myself to A2 size artworks. But no matter how much blu-tac I used, they resolutely came undone, somewhat like my current nervous system. I generally woke up with a poster on my head, it having peeled itself off the wall. Clearly all I needed was this viscous gloop to solve my decor issues.
We managed, with some difficulty, to sponge off most of the gum that stuck to the door handles, but the floor remains undefeated. I set TSC to work, with a scraping device. ‘Did it work?’ I asked, not daring to look. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘Sorry’. ‘So is this just my life now?’ I asked, fruitlessly of course, as she’d disappeared. At least all former stickiness from the blobs has gone so they don’t stick to our socks, but that’s only because they are grey from all the gross stuff I mentioned earlier. Pile on round here for your tea, why don’t you all. It’s a delight.
So how did I reply to the Whatsapp which started this tirade? ‘Some dinner candles would be nice, and a pair of black tights from M&S please. Love Mum xx’ I deserve a fecking medal.
