Daniel: Why isn’t there a chicken in my egg?
Me: Because it’s not fertilised.
Daniel: Oh it’s only the egg?
Me: Yes, and a chicken is like a baby…
Daniel: I see, there can’t be a chicken unless there’s a sperm to mind the egg.
Middle Child
Another Year Over
The children (one of whom is checking this as I write under the new censorship system) got their school reports this week. They’re all very brilliant, as ever, though I note, thanks to my OCD filing system, slightly less brilliant than last year. Six trophies were given out in school and three of them were claimed by my children, admittedly for perfect attendance rather than genius at Irish (two trophies – these went to other families) but you can’t have everything. [Boastful Mum – signed the ever-vigilant censor WHAT? evil mum!]
The Princess’s teacher commented as follows on her report:
“She has shown great skill in her story writing throughout the year and equally in her oral accounts of these stories.”
A sample of this work is quoted below:
My Pet
My pet’s name is Hodge. She is a cat (or a pig cleverly in disguise). The longest time she was ever away from a can of cat food was ten seconds, she probably died of hunger. She is MEANT to eat dry cat food but I don’t think that the next door neighbour understands the word “cat diet”. She is MEANT to drink water out of her bowl but she prefers Dad’s bedtime glass of water. Note to self, close the toilet lid.
A picture of the subject of this story is below.
Legal fat cat:
[“I’ve been checking the authorities and there’s no law against being 6 kilos” says Hodge]
The schizophrenic nature of this blog under the new regime is proving trying for me. So much so that the Princess may shortly have her own blog. She is pushing for the title “Comments of an 8 year old” to redress the perceived wrongs in this blog. It’s hard to regard this development with any great enthusiasm.
In less controversial news, we are all on summer holidays now – hurrah! Tomorrow we decamp for a week in Kerry. Let us pray for fine weather. Full account to follow when we get back. There’s something to look forward to.
Dialogue
Daniel: Guess what I heard a boy say in the park?
Me: What sweetheart?
Him: “Fook off, stop touchin’ me bag.”
Me: Oh dear, that’s not very nice. Don’t say that.
Him: But that’s what he said.
Me: But it’s not very nice, we don’t say that.
Him: Yes, we say my bag.
Weekend Round Up
The boys went to two birthday parties this weekend. Very exciting. Birthday party one was in one of these indoor play centre places which they both loved and I dropped them and ran. On my return Michael confided to me sadly, “There was nothing I liked to eat but I drank the orange juice.” They had chicken nuggets, chips, ketchup and cake. When you would really like your child to eat chicken nuggets, you know you have hit rock bottom.
On Sunday we went to a completely different party. The birthday boy was 4 and an only child. As it happened almost all the other invitees were 4 or younger. It was a collection of the north inner city’s middle classes. One pipe bomb could have taken us all out. There were about 20 kids there and a good sprinkling of associated parents. The Princess wandered up to a table where I was chatting to a father who was there with his 4 and 2 year old children. She was deriving mild entertainment from rubbing a balloon on her hair. “My goodness,” said the Daddy of the two small children, “your hair’s standing on end, why is that?” “Static electricity,” she said coldly, leaving him somewhat deflated. That’s the difference between 4 and 8, I suppose.
On Saturday night Mr. Waffle and I went to see The Pride of Parnell Street. This is two monologues with no interval and we were in the fourth row and I was tired so, towards the end I fell asleep until woken by the sound of elderly ladies giving a standing ovation. Oh dear. We did a lot for the average age of the audience. The only person we could see who was younger than us was a little girl of about 9 further down our row. Would you take your young child to a play about domestic violence and the collapse of a marriage? Answers on a postcard, please.
The play itself was good but it dragged. I’m not sure whether it was the direction or the script; I don’t think that it was the format, I’ve been to compelling monologues and at least this had two actors. And it was likely to please. I know the setting intimately and could summon immediately to mind every location that the actors mentioned. It was nicely written. I thought that the wife was really excellent although the husband failed to impress. It was full of [described] incident but I fell asleep [during one of the husband’s bits]. Never a really ringing endorsement. And Mr. Waffle did lighting for the director when they were all students together [Mr. Waffle’s lighting career probably peaked about then] and the director’s wife was in my bookclub years ago. So you can see how we really wanted to love it. But we didn’t. I think I preferred “Thor”. Will we all cry together?
Critical Appreciation
Me: Guess what Daddy and I went to see in the cinema last night?
Daniel and Michael: What?
Me [Don’t mock – even the teenage ticket vendor sneered at us]: Thor, God of Thunder
Them [in unison]: And hater of hair cuts.
Me [Trying to figure out some parts of the plot]: Who were Thor’s enemies that he defeated?
Michael: The Jacobites.
Hmm
Daniel and I were listening to Umberto Tozzi, an Italian, singing his most famous number [Gloria] in Spanish. “That’s not English,” said my son sagely. “I know what language it is, it’s Irish!”
I corrected his misapprehension. A couple of days later, Daniel asked me, “Mummy, what was that song again, the one we were singing together in Japanese?”