Hook A Turd
I have this
mate C. Whenever we get together, ridiculous things happen- I’ve come to expect
it as a universal law of physics. If you put us into a formula we’d look
something like this: L+C=chaos squared + tears of laughter. She is the only other
person I know whose children are genuinely as crazy as mine, and who isn’t
afraid to embrace the madness.
C came to
visit in the summer with her two lovely girlies. Her girls and my girls get on
like a house on fire and we were treated to a spectacular array of theatrical
talent throughout the morning, mostly based around a very original version of
the Harlem Shake. One which I add, I had to pull from all public social network
forums since my eight year old decided rubbing her bare chested nipples while
gyrating her hips wearing pants on her head constituted a decent dance
move. Even worse, when C asked where she
learned such groovy moves her response pointed straight at me. “That’s how
mummy dances.” For the record, I don’t think I gyrate quite as ferociously as
she did, and the occasions I have she would definitely NOT have been there to
witness it.
Onwards and
upwards; our picnic under the apple tree proved to be more than civilised,
except when it came to eating the chocolate cake D had so lovingly crafted that
morning in honour of our guests. The effort did not equal the payout. As she
presented us with her dry cocoa brick we exchanged glances while struggling to
hold it down like some insane rival cream cracker challenge. You know the one-
how many cream crackers can you eat in one minute? Sounds easy, but is very
difficult my friends. This was the chocolate version. Which made it in no way
any less disgusting. The other kids didn’t seem to mind though and three cups
of tea later we were almost back to normality.
C lives in
a London suburb so the beach (unless you count the small lake near her house)
doesn’t feature frequently on her agenda. As such, whenever she visits we try
and get down to the seaside to build sandcastles, paddle in the sea, eat sandy
ice-creams and engage in other jolly British escapades. One small problem- C
had forgotten her swimming costume. Ever the helpful friend I offered her one
of mine. I did warn her it was an M and S special- one of those
suck-you-in-and-make-you-look-three-stone-lighter jobbies; that and it was also
a size 16. Offering your size 10-12 friend a size 16 swimsuit with no
explanation would have seemed rude, so I did re-iterate on a number of
occasions before loanage that it was indeed a very tiny size 16. C looked at me
with disdain before disappearing into the bathroom to assume the aforementioned
attire. A few grunts later and she emerged, agreeing wholeheartedly that this
was actually a stealth size 10 costume which had obviously evaded the tight
quality control procedure before leaving the shop. She did however point out
one advantage- she definitely wouldn’t be peeing in my swimsuit in the sea
because there was no way on earth anything was escaping the squeeze of that
suit.
Leaving the
boys at home we bundled children into the fun bus and drove down to Durley
where a thoroughly British time was had by all. Waves were jumped, ice cream
was dropped, tears were shed, and incredibly no small children were drowned. As
we settled down on the sand to eat our chips the phone rang. I picked up to a
distressed and slightly drowsy sounding S; apparently he’d sliced his finger
pretty much off, needed to go to A and E and wasn’t sure whether he’d be able
to look after B safely for the next ten minutes in case he blacked out
(seemingly a regular feature of S-trauma).
Chips,
children and a good proportion of the beach packed in the car, we sped off 999
style to come to the aid of Broken Husband. On arrival home we were greeted by
our doctor friend who was at the house in case of faintage and who offered to
take S to the hospital. Brilliant.
Thankfully
the kids had been fed at the beach, so that was one less thing to think about,
but a chaotic scramble ensued as everyone entered the house and evidently
became desperate for the loo all at the same time. Myself included. C hopped
around trying to hold it in while I verified the specific nature of the kids’
toilet needs. As soon as C knew they all needed to drop the boys off rather
than spend a penny she shamelessly queue jumped and barged in the bathroom
first, leaving several small people clenching uncomfortably outside. She’s
learned firsthand that my kids take an insanely long time in the bathroom, and
she just wasn’t prepared to wait it out. I took her lead and rushed outside-
four kids later and my bladder is not what it used to be- expertly squatting
under the apple tree while trying my hardest not to pee on my trousers. Guys,
you do not know how easy you have it with your instant access mini hosepipe
attachments. I think there is something called a She-Wee for ladies, although
I’m not convinced. Anyway, I digress…. C made appropriate apologies to O on
discovery she was in fact telling the truth when she reported ‘Mummy is weeing
under the apple tree,’ and shortly after that all hell broke loose.
“The toilet
won’t flush mum,” came the shout from the bathroom. I rushed in to see the
mother of all messes sat right there in the toilet bowl- you’d be surprised how
much poo four relatively small children can produce. They’d seemingly tag
teamed with no interim courtesy flushing, resulting in a foul smelling
blockage. If at first you don’t succeed, try again right? Wrong. If the toilet
won’t flush, DO NOT under any circumstances attempt a second flush. The result?
A rising sense of panic accompanied the rising poo soup in the toilet. ‘C!’ I
shouted through to the kitchen, ‘We have a definite SHITuation.’ Dutifully C came running and immediately took
firm control of the foul-smelling farce. Eyes glinting she yelled for a coat
hangar, but I was too busy with my retching hysteria to comply. She took
matters into her own hands and ran upstairs, rooting through wardrobes until
she appeared triumphantly back in the bathroom waving her weapon. Her deft
fingers worked quickly to transform the hangar into something resembling those
hook-a-duck tools you get at school fairs. Except this was hook a turd. ‘You
flush, I’ll poke,’ came the instruction, and we both cried with nervous
laughter as we watched the brown sludge reach the tide mark of the bowl and time
slowed down as we contemplated a breach. Thankfully though, C’s plan worked,
and apart from the one stray floater still whirling around the pan, the crap
crisis was narrowly averted.
S returned
home shortly after with his finger properly stitched, and we settled down with
a well deserved Chinese (which definitely did no favours for C’s size-16-swimsuit
complex). But it tasted great. Everything except the sticky brown crispy beef
that is……
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