You know how people say that nothing ever changes, (or to be more accurate, what they actually say is ‘Same old, same old’ and then grimace a sort-of smile at you. And sometimes they say ‘Same shit, different day’ and then grimace a sort-of smile at you). Admittedly, most of these people were usually asked for their opinions, which clearly differs from my example in the obvious fact that nobody has actually asked for mine.
Still, I’m going to give it to you anyway.
Nothing ever changes.
The Teenager is still sloping between his bedroom and the kitchen.
There has been a certain amount of variation in his technique in the fact that he now waits until he hears my bedroom door, my bedroom floor, the landing floor and the shower-head vibrating from my super-gentle snoring before he sneakily commits a Muffin-Raid. It also has to be said, this new, improved tactic has experienced some considerable success since, as he well knows, I suffer from Can’t-Unglue-My-Eyes-Till-10am-Sickness, so the odds of my identifying the kitchen as a crime scene the following morning are pretty limited.
No real change there then.
Annabelle has become a Tween-Ager and, like serial-killers, it is perfectly true that the female variety of the species is much, much worse than its male counterpart.
My evenings are spent listening to the Tween-Ager variously Face-Timing, receiving and sending texts and answering calls from her social set.
Her ringtone (One Direction) sets my teeth on edge. The content of her spoken communication (No way, Shuddddup and Reeeerrrlllyyyy) makes me wonder if Dexter Morgan’s ‘Code’ could be adapted to include Tween-Management and, most irritatingly, the fact that she paces up and down the hall and then around and around in front of ‘The One Show’ while she’s conducting this gripping repartee, makes me want to rip the phone out of her hands, disguise it as a mini-muffin and let The Teenager deal with it.
Having said that, she’s lost three lunch-boxes, a pair of trainers and two entire school bags this term. I’ve replaced her locker key on a semi-weekly basis and, when she’s not running the Mobile-Phone-Wind-Up, she still has the singing, dancing, running and the jumping to fall back on.
Again, granted, it’s different packaging, but ultimately, same problem.
The dog, cunningly realising that my wellies had very little ‘Christ-This-Snow’s-Deep’ gripping traction, pulled me into a ditch this morning and my satellite dish still point-blank refuses to even attempt to go out and try to track down a signal any time it sniffs a raindrop or snowflake.
So, in short, whilst time keeps ticking by, I’m still very much living the B&Q lifestyle of my nightmares.
Fraid so my friends. Fraid so.