Friday, 22 April 2011

The imprisoned adolescent within, leaps like out a ninja on speed...



Last week was one thing, leaving me with the desire to rip my own arm off, just so I had something to laugh about. But do you know what? This week has topped it. I have ‘willed killed’ one of chickens, the finger firmly points in my direction, and OH the guilt, I’ll bite ‘the finger’ off, it’s rude to point, and then that’ll ‘learn’ it…

I now find myself subject to barrages of questions about death from kids, I feel as though I should be sporting a judge’s wig, donning a cape and secretly Googling everything, so as to be armed with the appropriate responses. I thought I would share some of the questions, just to let you into my ‘we think mum killed the ‘effing’ chicken’, and we now have SOOOOOO many questions that we will ask intermittently and regularly whether it be with mouthfuls/doing teeth/just before we go to bed/first thing in the morning/whenever we want, cos we want answers dammit’

Here we go, questions and responses from Madame ‘I’ve-just-killed-my-own-chick-ipedea’;

‘Mum, does she still wee and poo now she’s dead?’ Me, ‘no sweetheart, the body’s stopped working, so she doesn’t need to do that anymore’. ‘Why isn’t her body working?’ ‘Cos she’s dead’ ‘why is she dead? Did you kill her mum?’ ‘No, I did not kill her (*doubts self*), sometimes these things happen.’ ‘What colour is she now?’ Well I chose to be honest, she was a weird deep-purpley colour. ‘Won’t she be hungry? Shall we drop some food in the hole you dug for her?’ ‘Not really worth it sweetheart, she doesn’t need food anymore’ ‘Can we cycle over her grave? Will it squish her?’ ‘No, it will not squish her, bit late for that now, she is as hard a prosthetic moob by now.’ ‘What?’ ‘Nothing. Yes you can cycle over her grave if you really feel the need.’ And this one, which made me laugh: ‘does Meg only come out at night now?’ A chicken ghost ‘boc boc boooooooooooooOOOOOOooooOOOOOoOOooc’ is how it would go.

I do hope I managed to answer their thoughts, it’s been like a cross between a ‘Whodunnit?’ (‘mummydunnit’) and children’s Mastermind, with the subject being ‘chicken death’, not my forte.

The dog found a jar of Nutella in the recycling, and he proceeds to lick it out with equally as much zeal as he licks his own b******s. Rude, but true. At tea time, he spews EVERYWHERE, kids don’t see it in time, and walk through it, then burst into tears as it’s just too rank for words, the dog walks through it, just to add insult to injury, and the phone rings. Alex gets the phone- cop out, so I save it for him to clear up, as honest to god, I do deal with most of the s*** and bodily excretions here, but dog puke? Nah, I have my limits, and I seriously would just end up clearing up my own as a result. So the buck (is this a male hare? I just passed him the kitchen roll in reality, not a male hare) is firmly passed to Alex.

hares, a frolicking...

This morning I have to go and register at various complicated companies in France. Normally roughly eighty-nine thousand separate enterprises deal with the same thing in France, and you are obliged to register with them all. My husband’s in the process of changing jobs and things, and whilst he’s out there doing that, I deal with the paper worky side of things-his P.A (unlucky b******d!). I walk into one of the relevant places today, the kids pick out a leaflet each and sit down to read, in some cases look, at. This is standard procedure, they’re all well briefed on etiquette in official French ‘never the right office, you have to go elsewhere, really? Yes. You’re sure, cos the last 4 places insisted it was you? Yes, we’re sure, now p*** off, Madame Du Bois (wood)’ places. The lady behind the desk calls out in her French stern ‘I’m behind a desk and I have ALL the power, mwahahahaha’ megalomaniacal manner, ‘Hey! Kids, no, they’re not toys, put them all back at once, they’re not there to be played with’, bear in mind, there is a queue, there are 4 of them, the building is boring as f*** to kids, and they have all taken one leaflet, and sat down beautifully to read them. I glare at the lady, and all of a sudden, the imprisoned adolescent within, leaps like out a ninja on speed, without warning, Kevin and Perry styley, I deliberately take one of each leaflet going ‘I want that one, and that one, and that one, and that one…’, there’s a fair few to collect, it takes a bit of time, then distribute them to my kids. HA! in your face lady behind the desk wench. Then tell the kids to rip them all into teeeeeny tiny pieces, and throw them like confetti. Alright, I didn’t go that far, but when it was my turn, OOOOOoo you could not feel the lurve, more like utter detestation from her, I stagger to the desk, forcing  myself through the force of the 'hate vibes', I had fckuked it, but I couldn’t care less, pedantic bint. That’ll show ‘em. And guess what? I wasn't even n the right place anyway, apparently, but I'm sure she told me that out of sheer spite.



Well, I must get on, lots more boring stuff to do, more animals to ‘will kill’, Mastermind chair to sit in, worst P.A in the world role to fulfill, leaflets strewn in car to recycle and a Treasure hunt to write clues for tomorrow. I think I am due some Cadbury’s cream eggs as my prize for making through the past fortnight-but do you know what? They don’t ‘do’ Cadbury’s in France-can you even believe it?

Happy Easter all of you! x

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