There
is probably no such thing as ‘normal’ where teenagers are concerned. They’re
full of surprises; you never quite know where they’re coming from. So this
evening’s entertainment could not have been predicted, except perhaps in the
sense of it’s being typical of the way
my boys approach the world. Why should we assume they need to focus on one job
at a time, as we were encouraged to do: ‘sit down and read a book’, ‘let’s play
a game’, ‘switch off that radio and do your homework’? I probably don’t set a
particularly good example myself, in that I often have the radio on in the
background as I’m doing domestic chores. This is especially unwise in that I
frequently have to switch down the sound in order to stand half a chance of
understanding the…what can you call them? Grunts is too short. Outpourings too
emotional. Perhaps just ‘sounds’ that are thrown in my general direction
without warning, from distant rooms or – one of their favourites – from
doorways?
Tonight’s
was a particularly diverse (= random) collation partly because I had little in
the fridge, again, and partly in order to finish up some odds and ends. So
maybe six or seven things on the go. And an interesting programme on the
wireless. Allegedly. Jack was initially cleaning his car and wanted to know how
he could get a water stain out of his car seat. Charlie was trying to get his
phone reconnected by actually paying his overdue bill. As I moved the fishcakes
into the top oven, he threw some figures at me complaining that he was
overdrawn and I, typical guilty parent, immediately started working out how
much I could give him to get things straight. ‘Why does this jumper say hand
wash when it’s 100% cotton? See: look at the label.’ Jack had moved on to getting
some washing into the machine, despite the fact that we have someone ‘viewing’
the house in a couple of days and I didn’t want the place littered with his
drying clothes.
As
I cut the cabbage, I agreed that the culprit might be a tiny leather tab on the
zip. “Those stupid bastards at Virgin say they can’t take the payment’ is the
sort of comment that needs no response, besides I had a cheese sauce that
needed some attention and, mercy me!, I appeared to have quite forgotten to put
the awfully named Pollock pie from the microwave into the top oven. ‘I’m going
to machine wash it anyway’ seemed like a good solution to that one, especially
since Jack had, by now, sat down to fill in a complicated form to claim a
refund for a trip to the dentist. I could see trouble ahead; best get some
butter on those potatoes while I still had the chance.
‘Sorted’
announced son no. 2 a couple of minutes later in a tone that clearly required
me to enquire for further details of how he had been so clever. But not
necessarily to listen in detail. I heard something about what the bastards at
Lloyds Bank had or hadn’t done as I was giving the mash a quick stir round. And
then Liz, my lodger, strolled casually through the kitchen after her shower,
wearing just a towel round her. As you do.
‘Am I living in a care home?’ was
just the right sort of question to bring me back to reality. ‘Noooo, I don’t
think so,’ I said out loud with a definite hint of uncertainty in my voice.
It
was time to get some plates out, so we could enjoy some of that quality family
conversation that is supposed to happen round the dinner table but of which,
alas, I can remember little. We old people just can’t focus, can we?
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