Golf golf golf .............. Still it keeps him out of trouble. That man used to cook up a whole heap of trouble in his day. That's why I shagged him actually. He was my Rock & Roll friend. The naughty one. The one you have lots of fun with.
Just look at us now. He's always in the kitchen just in his pants (I think I mean he's always just in his pants in the kitchen - he doesn't have another kitchen in his pants. At least I don't think so) - swinging his club. Practice practice practice. And I am forever being demonstrated to. That sounded wrong too didn't it? He's always demonstrating his 'new' golf swing to me. In his pants. In the kitchen. There - that sounds normal now. Doesn't it? Well it's normal here. And so is little Rock Godling running in silently and pulling down his pants and high-tailing it screeching with laughter. Now that's not clear either. WHOSE pants? DADDY's pants. But he is actually quite obsessed with pulling down his own pants in public places too. What point am I trying to make? I've completely forgotten. Something to do with golf........
'In the hole!' That's what Americans shout on telly at golf tournaments as soon as a ball is struck. It's very annoying. And hasn't helped my memory at all.
Well .... (winging it.....).... Blah blah exchanging leather trousers for Rupert trousers, biker jackets for diamond-patterned tank-tops, shaft/sink/screw talk for dirty sexy talk - hang on a minute.......... maybe that's stayed the same? .......... 'In the hole!' - Nah - doesn't do it for me. What has become of my naughty bad dirty boy?
But what has become of me? .....white lines for washing lines of whites? Gold lame hot-pants for nice comfy leggings? Fishbone gigs for chicken lectures! Fuck-me shoes for Fuck-you boots........ Wh'appened?
Actually I was never very good at being totally bad. Was always more of a Guinness girl than a hard-core pharmacueticalist. But I did like my fun.
And, very recently, I do seem to have got my MoJo back. After years of either being a pregnant or lactating sow I have now reclaimed all my lady bits for my own amusement. All I need now is a willing Dirty Boy to play with. A couple of weeks ago we had a 3-night run of actually going to bed TOGETHER - IN THE SAME BED! But I went and spoiled it for myself by being too scary and demanding and ........ sort of ...... husbandy. 'Haven't you got a blog you can write or something?' He really said that. Sort of squeaked it really. It's amazing how Mr Golfpants is suddenly very sympathetic to little R. Godling and his latest phase of nightmares - 'Of course you can sleep in our bed! Mummy can go in with Thuglet won't you Mummy?' I think it's less fatherly devotion and more using R G as a human shield.
Should just go back to my good book, thinking up nice quilting designs and planning my next eager Home Educative experiments with stream-lining. That's what I should do. In fact I did receive rather lovely Mother's Day presents today - including 2 very gorgeous books on quilts from the V & A which I flicked through in bed this morning with Minx and my breakfast in bed, which she ate. And I did sit on my bum all day at my in-laws watching the Bahrain Grand Prix - so that's the stream-lining research started then.
Hmmmm - a thoroughly lazy day today - eating M & S delights (that's another exchange right there - S & M for M & S) - and home-made fairy cakes, flicking through magazines and occasionally leaning forward to peer through the window at fleeting shapes of wild children up to no good with Grandad and cousins. They played football, fed the chickens, ran around the field with the dogs, let out the pigeons, said hello to the horse, rode bikes, clambered for hours over a haystack and Grandad took them 'up the bomb-hole' for more wild larks. (This alone made me snigger ALL day.)
Grandad (by the way I know it's supposed to have 2 'd's in it but it looks silly to me so I always drop one for aesthetic reasons) showed us the picture he has in his wallet - not of Nanny, or his children or grandchildren no. It's a well-loved picture of 'Nigger' his little black dog of his youth - I know!!!!!!!!! And !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! right?
And then the Remember Whens started. Sparked by a rude joke text he'd received - from one of his grandchildren - which had a rude word in it. Nanny thought it was funny ('Cheeky!') too. 'You'd not know that word though would you?' I'm asked. Here we go.........
But teasing me is no way near as fun as teasing their own dear son - and my dear Mr Gpants. Families are fab aren't they?
'Remember the bomb?'
Poor Daddy. He's a bit of a mother hen at the best of times (unless the golf is on) but finding a bomb leaning up against the house one lovely early morning made him flip.
We'd not been living here in our rustic idyll very long but he'd managed to convince his dad to bring down his big digger thing and bury that huge dead tree trunk and all the other dangerous things from the garden in a big hole. What fun for small boys and an indulgent Grandad. And how exciting to find a big old bomb in the hole as he was digging! Can we keep it?
Daddy was late back that evening but still first up the next day. Decided to take an early pad around the estate (ok - garden). Gulping that delicious country fresh air, listening to the birds uninterrupted by the sounds of cars starting and mothers screaming, gazing out across the fields at the hazy summer morning and WHATTHEFUCKSTHAT?
'Everybody upstairs!' (We are upstairs. We are still bloody asleep.) 'There's a bomb! There's a bomb in the garden! Did you know there's a bomb in the garden? Where's the phone? I'm calling the police! They'll have to get the army in! Bomb Disposal Unit! Did you KNOW there's a bomb in the garden??!!!'
'Oh yeah that. Your dad dug it up yesterday.'
'WHAT? He dug up a bomb? With the digger? Where were the children?'
'Um....sitting on it I think.'
'Are you MENTAL?'
'Well I did wonder but I reckoned your dad would know if it was dodgy or not'
'WHAT THE FUCK DOES MY FUCKING DAD KNOW ABOUT FUCKING BOMBS???!!!!!!'
'Well......he was a kid in the war-'
'YOU STUPID FUCKING WOMAN!!!! YOU DON'T WANT TO LISTEN TO MY FUCKING DAD!!!!! HE'S FUCKING MENTAL!!!!!!!!'
So we had the police, and the Bomb Disposal Unit round. While we told him about yesterday's games of Catch the Bomb and Bomb Badminton and Drill the Bomb etc...... Bless him.
Just an empty shell as it turned out. I knew that. He has a way of making you doubt your own mind by drowning out your thoughts with his own panic. I've kind of got used to it now - (still hideous to get on an aeroplane with. Terrible if anyone coughs. Murder in an adventure playground. Children eating fish - god!)
Trouble was he kept asking where things were after the Bomb Day. 'Have you seen the barbeque grill?' 'Do you know where my lawn-mower went?' 'What happened to my old golf trolley?'
'Um...............in the hole!'