Obviously not me. But you knew that already. No - it is my Minx. She has passed her Level 2 ice skating test after SUCH MUCH dragging of bladed heels in the Field Moves department 'But I hate them! They're boring!' Every bleedin' lesson she got them wrong. On the wrong edge, arms all wrong, bottom sticking out instead of knees bent and she can't count..... Wrong Wrong Wrong!!!!! Then last Thursday we squeezed in an extra lesson and she finally gets it right! Yay! Wednesday's test will be OK after all. Tuesday's lesson - Wrong Wrong Wrong!!!!!!! Oh fuck she's crap. But today..... bottoms up! Got through! Worth getting up at 4.30am for and driving for an hour and a half in teeming rain for and hanging around the coldest place on earth for another 3 hours for? Oh yes. Especially as none of that applied to me. I did wave her and Daddy off at about 5am - or something - nagged about leg warmers and a thicker jumper, then went back to bed. I know where I truly belong.
I also know where I truly don't belong. It is getting more and more clear that I do not belong in a Michael Jackson-style Street Dance class. I am becoming more and more lost and unbalanced with each week. I have now resorted to being the disruptive element (disruptive elephant would be more accurate) in the back row who this week finished on her knackered knees in tear-streaked hysterics at her own ineptitude while everyone else was perfecting their moonwalk. I did resist performing my own signature move - the moon. Only because by then I couldn't use my arms effectively. All that pointing, dragging and grabbing ...... I just can't be taking this seriously. Everyone else looks kinda cool but I look like ...well, exactly what I am: a slightly plump uncoordinated mutton-as-lamb fool. Normally I don't care. Don't go in for mirrors much in this house. The dance studio is ALL MIRROR!!!! I do not belong there!!!!!!!!!
Dancing is not for the post-birthers. I have said it before. It is some kind of chemical reaction that occurs when things that are really too big to be anywhere near your lady bits get squeezed out from there and leave your entire body suddenly incapable of cool moves ever again. I'm sure David Attenborough must've done a programme on it - the natural cycle of doing dancing to attract a partner so you can do procreating and when you've done that, the dancing reflex is lost immediately. No longer biologically necessary.
I think being cool is very much over-rated anyway. As is cleanliness, appropriate humour, sympathy for illness, nutrition..... This family is never going to get on Blue Peter.
To prove my point I shall list our latest fun and games - (Oh the funny things they say!!!!!! Just don't repeat any of this to Social Services.) Here goes:
I may have previously mentioned my Little Rock Godling's aversion to hygiene. I asked him the other day 'When did you last have a bath?' Shrug. Rest of family unusually quiet. All thinking. Nope. No bells ringing. 'When did you last change your pants?' I can hear the wind whistling down the old chimney. Dim echoes of ghostly ticking. 'Hmmmnn ....' A minute later I've got him on my lap and despite his history he is still unbelieveably edible. 'Oh I'm going to eat you all up.... but maybe when you're clean.' 'Yes' he replies 'Or I'll be itchy butt flavour.'
Last week at my mum's we were playing 'Tell Me' - (where you spin a dial thing and it lands on a letter and you ask a question and then you have to give an answer beginning with that letter - family funfunfun...) The letter was 'u'. The question was 'Something you would find underground'. Hmmmmmmn...... Minx came up with 'Uncle Brian'. Gallows humour from an 11 year old. That silent hysteria again took hold. The sort of laughing that you do when you're really not allowed to. The sort that hurts your stomach and ruins your mascara. It may have been 4 years now but my mum was really not ready to see the funny side. Which of course made it way more funny. Ow.
In the park yesterday one of the mums was looking out for another's little girl when she needed a wee. The toilets were a hike. 'Would you do a wild wee?' Blank look. 'Like in the bushes or something?' Frowning now. 'Um.... when you and mummy go for walks in a country park say, and you need a wee, where would you wee then?' 'In the stinging nettles.'
And I can add another Vom Notch on the side of my car. Same seat. Different little friend. Same journey (the big one - the ice rink at dawn's crack). Same 'Woof-Splatt!' noise. The same reaction. 'Open the window, give him a wet wipe, we're running late.' I'm gonna get a reputation. A different one!
And before you know it it's bloody dinner time again and I just can't be fucked.
As I said, it's all over-rated.
And the childishness doesn't stop when we finally get to bed. Thankfully I can't recall how the converstion got started but it led to a new puerile game: substitute the word 'spunk' for the word 'love' in all your favourite song titles. Here are just a few:
Spunk Me Do
This Guy's In Spunk
How Deep is your Spunk?
Spunk Letters in the Sand
Yummy Yummy Yummy I've got Spunk in My Tummy
Spunk Me Spunk My Dog
Ever Fallen in Spunk With Someone You Shouldn't've Fallen in Spunk With........
There were more but it was late...... memory not what it was. Thank fuck. But none of these titles match up to Little Rock Godling's lastest list of his songs for his band 'Skulls On Fire':
I've Never Been Nine
Skull On Fire
I Don't Have to be the Biggest Wanker
He's going to go far that boy. I hope he'll remember his old ma for all her love and support when he's swathed in groupies beside his LA pool. 'And this one's dedicated to my dear mother' ........... I can't begin to imagine where it can go from here. But to be honest, with parents like us the poor little sod doesn't really stand a chance.
I can already hear the stadium ringing with the chants of 'Wanker! Wanker! Wanker!.....'
I'll be bursting with pride. That's MY wanker up there! 'Wanker! Wanker! Wanker!.....'
Oops..... * * STOP PRESS * * I've made an error on LRG's song title No 2: this should read We Are Skulls On Fire
I hope this now makes perfect sense.
The ill-informed researcher in question has now been dealt with in accordance with the rules of the house. Back to the poo mines for me.