Last night was a rough night by any standard. Our little boom has a cold and is not sleeping well. Myself and the good lady passed him around like stoners passing a pipe throughout the night. All grunts and hooded eyes.
In no time at all it was morning. We got up and remarkably, despite the lack of sleep, everything started off splendidly. As we sat at breakfast we discussed our plans for the day.
Halfway through the discussion the good lady actually fell asleep. Our little daughter who can seemingly survive on two hours sleep a night woke her up by shaking her and shouting.
Mummy, you're SLEEPING!!!
The good lady snorted like a wild pig in a fig factory and woke up.
We carried on discussing our plans as if nothing had happened. The little lady was adamant about her idea.
I want to put up the Christmas tree today!!
It was a little early but we agreed. She was absolutely desperate.
The day progressed. It didn't take long for the tree to go up but it was still enough time for the little lady to have several meltdowns about almost nothing at all.
The good lady watched on from the sofa, our little boom steadfastly fastened to the boob like a squalling parasite from another dimension.
Eventually, the tree was done. By the end up even the good lady had been dragged into the stormy meltdowns and tantrums and the family atmosphere was tense, to say the least.
Somehow, most of the afternoon had managed to slip by and it was almost dinner time. I asked the good lady what should we do about dinner.
She motioned listlessly to the boob feeder who was by now onto the dregs of her soul. By the looks of it, he would soon need a new host and discard the husk that used to be my woman.
I shuddered and placed a couple of fingers over my nipples in fear of an imminent attack.
To thaw the tense and frosty atmosphere I suggested heading out for a bite to eat.
Off we trotted to the local cafe. The one which does nice food and not the one which serves leather boiled in shit. We looked at the menus that were passed to us. The good lady took the feeder off to the toilets for a quick nappy change.
The little lady demanded soup.
Soup Daddy, I want soup!
Hmm, do you indeed. There are several kinds up on the board. Which one do you want?
I can't read, daddy. Tell me what they are!
I did as I was commanded. The little lady liked the sound of the second soup I mentioned and asked me several times how to pronounce it. I instructed her well.
Shortly after mummy bear returned with the baby who unusually was not boob-glued. She sat down.
Right, are we all ready to order?
I nodded and smiled wide.
The waitress came over. I ordered mine, the good lady then ordered hers. The waitress turned to our enchanting little daughter.
And so little one... What would you like do you know?
I would like soup.
She replied, eyes bright.
Do you know what kind of soup you would like?
Yerharse in Parsley!!
Everything stopped. I am quite sure if a cat shed a hair you could have heard it land.
Pardon?
Said the waitress nervously.
YERHARSE IN PARSLEY!
The little lady yodelled.
It might be worth noting at this point that Your arse in parsley is an old Glasgwegian insult meant to denote that someone is talking rubbish. E.g. Hey, I just found 70 BTC on a hard drive from 1987. To which you would reply - Aye, Yer arse in parsley.
The waitress looked annoyed and confused at seemingly being abused by a four year old.
I tapped her on the elbow.
I think she means lentil.
Oh, Oh right. Ok, be right with you.
The waitress tromped off. I settled back and let a satisfied sigh escape my lips.
The good lady looked at me. She shook her head as she fought back laughter.
Oh Daddy, me and you are going to have words.
It was my turn to snort like a pig in a fig factory as we all Iaughed like a big happy sweary family.
