Oh! (pretending to be surprised in the hope he won't get eyes rolled in a heartbreakingly irritated way at him)
Tonight's evening meal went like a dream.
That dream when you wake up in the morning and think to yourself "Oh my God, I killed all my family in my dream," and all day long you feel terrible anxiety and trauma but you can't remember why. Then you remember that you killed your family and you shudder with grief. Then you remember that you didn't actually kill your family, that it was only a dream and you sigh in relief only for the whole thing to repeat itself about thirty minutes later, all day long.
When I picked Mick up from Nursery he had six peppermint creams on a plate. I said "Lovely Mick, look at those lovely peppermint creams, thank God you finally moved out of that rubbish old room into a room where they do good stuff."
(I feel strange about typing God because I know my mum will be reading this and she hates it if you write "God" on a piece of paper because you are supposed to write G-d in case you destroy the paper and you destroy God's name. What about this then? Are these pixels real? Do you destroy God's name if you navigate away from this page? Perhaps you'd better just leave this page open forever, just in case.)
Martine said "Ha Ha Ha,"
I said "Are you going to share those Mick?"
"No, not share them," Mick says.
"Ha Ha Ha," says Martine.
"Ha Ha Ha, Yum Yum, Lovely Peppermint Creams!" I say, thinking to myself "I wish I could throw those peppermint creams in the bin. Those peppermint creams are absolutely the worst things that have ever been made ever."
I arranged for Polly to pick up Fish and Chips on the way home because we're out of food and I can't be bothered to cook tonight. Nigel says that's alright in "Appetite" where he writes a rule of "Don't cook every single day," although his latest book probably says "A day without cooking is a day without joy." or a more porno version of that (hello peverets doing searches for porno, I can see you through my stats).
Halfway through the meal it all kicks off because Elly really wants a desert but hates fish and chips and everyone else likes their meal but she doesn't. Mick meanwhile is remembering that the peppermint creams are his desert and he doesn't want to share them with anyone.
At this point I spot my dictaphone and hit "record" thinking it will make a good blog.
Elly: We're going to have two each, one for you one for me, one for you and one for me.
Mick: (pouting) No
Polly: Right, I tell you what Mick, because you've got a letter "M" there... (points to the cream in the shape of the letter M)
Mick: (shouting) No...
Polly: (voice raising an octave in brave enthusiasm) Oooh, you've got an M and a T.
Mick: No, I want, I want to eat 'em all, (with increasing anger) eat 'em all, eat 'em all.
(Polly distributes the peppermint creams between the two children)
Mick: (crying in outrage) No, NO!!!
Polly: Right Mick, yours go in the bin.
(Polly walks out of the room with the two plates of creams in her hand.)
Elly: (crying, as if a horse she loves has died) Mick's got more than me I don't even...
Mick: No, No, (crying) u huugh u huugh, waaaugh, No, (Screaming) I'm not. Put it out the bin, I want them.
Elly: Waaaagh, ahaaagh, ahaaagh, kehugh, ahaaagh,
Mick: Ugh huugh, ugh huugh,
Polly: (walking back into the room with the plates) Are you ready to start sharing them?
Mick: (mournfully) I'm not.
Polly: Ok, well then I'm going to put them in the bin.
Elly: Ahaaaagh, eeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh, errrrrrgh.
Mick: I want one.
Polly: Are you stopping crying Elly? Do you want one rather than none?
(Elly nods her head and starts eating her peppermint creams)
Mick: (standing up on his chair and grabbing helplessly at the air in front of him) Uuuuuuuuuuur huuuuuuuuur, no, ho those are mine, ho, (proper, full blown screaming) aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh, aaaaaaaaaaagh, no, no, no give me back Elly, no, give me back, no, give me back, I want you to give me back, no, no, give me back Daddy...
David: You need to share your food.
Mick: No, Don't.
David: Yeah, you do,
Mick, No, don't, aaaeeeaaaggh, aaaeeeaaagh, aaaeeeaaaggh, aaaaeeeaaagh... (this continues rhythmically every half second through the rest of the dialogue)
Polly: (spotting the dictaphone) What's going on with this? Why's it on?
David: (pretending to be surprised in the hope he won't get eyes rolled in a heartbreakingly irritated way at him) Oh!
Polly: Are you recording all this?
David: (guiltily shrugging) Make a good blog?
Polly: For fuck's sake, would you turn it off?