Week 33: A Trifling Matter

GT (Girl Teenager) is standing in the hall having just walked home from the station after college. Unusually, she doesn’t resemble Robert Smith from The Cure; today she has moved form groups at college and decided that she should ”look more normal”, until her new form have come to know her. She has dark, pin-stripe trousers on, a top and black denim jacket. Her hair is straight and shiny and her make-up understated (no black tears or dark lip-stick). She is beautiful, whether dressed as Robert Smith or not, not that she knows it. She is clutching a Waitrose bag.

”Dad, I got Mum a present” she says.

”Did you? Why’s that then?”

”She is just such a great parent, you know?”

“Yeah I know. So what did you get her?”

GT excitedly opens the bag. “A trifle!” she says triumphantly.

Which is a shame really. Her Mum doesn’t like trifle. Fortunately her other, less deserving parent does like trifle. I let her down gently.

”You daft wazzock, she doesn’t like trifle. I do though; crack it open”

Ah the cruel twists and turns of fate for the trifle purchaser, eh?

Sadly that wasn’t the only trauma GT faced. Walking back up the hill, she had to pass a building site. On that building site were builders. Proving that the spirit of Bernard Manning lives on, one of them whistled, cat-called and commented on her arse. It really upset her. She finds it intrusive and intimidating, which however you look at it, it is. Why do some blokes do this? I‘ve never understood what they think they are gaining from making themselves look like a gibbon with a mis-firing brain cell (I can’t believe they have any more than one). How to make yourself look ignorant and stupid in one, simple move. And doing this to a sixteen year old? Come on, just don't do it.

In better GT news, her first (interim) assessments at college are really good. She loves her subjects and it is shining through. You go, girlfriend (as I believe the young folk say these days).

You might not be surprised to hear that the Puppo has continued to dominate home life. He is growing unbelievably quickly. Everything that fitted two weeks ago ... not now. He has at least doubled in size in a fortnight. Between him an BT (Boy Teenager), who has gone from shortest in his friendship group to tallest this year, the buggers are going to bankrupt me. “Dad, I need new clothes. But Dad I want Illvzn and Goodrich. Oh and I need new trainers to walk the dog. I really like these Jordan F1s. They are only £129” (Editor’s note: they may not have been called Jordan F1s).

New £129 trainers to walk the dog? Mate, they will get covered in mud, chewed by the hound and generally abused. What about a nice pair of (cheap) Karrimor walking boots which you don‘t need to take care of? Yeah I know people might see you, but trust me, they will be in their crappiest old clothes. Having been pupped for a month, I now know why dog walkers always look like they‘ve interrupted planting potatoes to take the dog out.

BT decided this week that he would make a concerted effort to sort his sleep out, following two nights last week lying awake until 5.30am listening out for the dog. He was doing this in case the dog needs a wee and we don’t ear him howling. And boy can he howl when he needs to. For a little fella the size of a modest cat, you’d think there was a wolf in the Sitting Room. BT’s concern isn’t without foundation, however. His Mum, Gin (so called as she once drank the London Gin Festival dry) would sleep through Krakatoa blowing up at the bottom of the garden. Me? Not so much unless I am VERY tired and have had too much wine. That will be three times a week then. BT sorting his sleep out will see him advance his sleep time around the clock by a few hours a day for a week or so, and then hopefully hold it at something approaching normal. You have to feel for him, he is permanently “jet-lagged”, despite not having been within 15 miles of an airport for 20 months.

The thing that really struck me this week though is just how hard it must have been for Gin being stuck at home with young babies. The experience I’m having with the pup is sort of a parallel, and the lack of time and freedom are really hard going. And I’m in the fortunate position where I can share some of the pup duties with BT (when he is awake). How she, and any other Mum or Dad that has been mostly home-alone with nippers, managed it for years is beyond me. I’ve understood, perhaps 13 years too late, that I was having a far nicer life at work than she was at home. I’ve also realised why those Post-Natal groups (Baby Moan Club, as we call ours) are so important. In a strange twist, our friends Char & Marcos (part of our Baby Moan Club) also have a puppo of similar age to Milo, and we have our own Puppo Moan Club sub-branch in place. In an even stranger coincidence, we think both of our pup’s Dad might be the same Cocker Spaniel. Brothers from different Mothers. As Char says, the Dad was a playa (I thought that meant “beach” in Portuguese, but I’ve run with it). She’s so Urban our Char.

And me? Well I’m a bit disappointed. The Covid is on the rise, and half of our postcode has been rated as Tier 2 risk (Is that High? I think so). 500 yards up the road and the postcode drops to Medium, those residents in the Banstead and Reigate bit are so bloody lucky! Worse, Erewash in Derbyshire is also now Tier 2. I mean I feel for the residents of Erewash, but if the buggers had kept their hands off each other, our already re-arranged golf break to Breadsall Priory might still be going ahead. Gah.

And so week 33 comes to a close, and we enter week 34. GT starts a two week half term, so maybe I’ll get a bit more of the cooking and cleaning in that this blog is (vaguely) meant to be about. I bet she won’t do any early morning puppy pooper-scooping runs out in the back garden though.

Love & elbow-grease,

Mr H

x

PS As I type this I am sitting listening to the fabulous ”Kiwanuka” album. Try saying that when you are pissed.