Thursday, February 25, 2016
It’s just after Christmas. I don't see my son and daughter 'as much as I would like' so I’m overjoyed to be home with them after an eleven-hour round trip to collect them from their mother, who inconveniently lives four-hundred miles away. Of course, we’re in our local chip-shop. I'm not fucking making dinner after all that.
Chip-Shop Lady: Eeeh well was
canny ta yee pet?
My daughter looks at me with panic in her eyes.
Me: Was Santa good to you this year?
My Daughter: Oh. Right. Yeah. Totally spoilt.
She looks at me. I nod my approval. All is well and she receives some free stuff.
Some time later.
My children are on the upstairs landing of my house. I've taken a spare moment from removing tissue-paper from the pockets of their discarded jeans before I put them in the washing-machine.
Favourite Son: Is Daddy really going to make us watch that Stars Wars or whatever film with us?
Favourite Daughter: Dunno. We’ll just tell him he can watch it on his own and we’ll go shopping and have some lunch and get the bus back to his house if he’s still in the cinema. We do it at home all the time.
FS: Yeah. He’ll be all “Ok son”. With his accent.
FD: God it’s not as strong as most people around here. Remember that lady in the chip-shop last night? I had no idea what she was saying.
They’re unaware that a two-up two-down terraced house is not the place for private conversations. I go back to putting their dinner on plates.
And decide that maybe they’re a bit too old for me to be still holding their hands when we cross the road.