My plans for this weekend have been completely sodded up, once again, because useless Ex-Husband-Andy has ‘car trouble’.
Ex-Husband-Andy suffers a great deal with ‘car trouble’. It frequently strikes on alternate weekends throughout the year, but generally seems to resolve itself nicely by Monday morning. I know that because if I ever ring to ask for some fatherly assistance he is always ‘about two hours away’. Being ‘about two hours away’ is always just a little bit too far to be of any practical use on this occasion.
If I’d let him know earlier, he would most assuredly have dropped everything to lend a helping hand.
I was under the impression that when the midwife handed him his daughter back in 2002, that he and I were on the same page, both aware that a child is for life, not just for as long as it takes to sedate that hysterically screaming woman.
Like the Karcher Pressure Washer before her, he played with Annabelle enthusiastically for a little while and then obviously realised that just as a hose pipe didn’t make him a member of SWAT, ponsing around the city centre with a baby papoose strapped to his chest didn’t make him David Beckham either.
Annabelle was put back into her box and he went back to hanging the Beck-Man’s calendar next to the bathroom mirror where he could copy the pose and spend his Saturday afternoons accepting fictional footballing awards.
From that point on, the pointless cretin has been afflicted with a never-ending steam of troubles.
He just can’t catch a break.
If I sound harsh, please forgive me because I surely don’t mean to but being a father, in my humble opinion, is 99% showing up and 1% always getting it right.
Still, where there’s life there is allegedly hope but I tell you now, if he keeps claiming that the 2010 Mercedes E-Class has a known fault whereby the engine cuts out on days he’s supposed to pick up his daughter, I really can’t promise that the life part of the equation will continue much longer.
I have a pressure washer and I know how to use it.