January 2013
2 posts
Max, Part II
I am putting the six-year-old to bed when we hear an almighty scream.
We rush downstairs and discover the twelve-year-old, in a state of distress.
“There’s a man in the tree-house”, she exclaims.
The mother emerges.
“Are you sure dear? I’ll go check.”
She grabs a cricket bat, heads into the garden, screams, returns and says: “Call the police, there’s a homeless man living in our tree-house.”
The...
Max
The six-year-old hands a Mars Bar to a homeless man outside the local newsagents.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Max,” he says.
Over the next couple of weeks, we see Max frequently and exchange pleasantries and food.
Then, as we pass him on the way to the park, the six-year-old asks if he’d like to play football with us. He says yes.
Thick heavy rain greases the grass and we slide around and...
December 2012
1 post
Desolation Row
The six-year-old and I take a seat on the bus.
Beneath our feet is a discarded kebab box. The six-year-old sighs and kicks it into the next row.
“Who does that help?” I ask, disappointed.
“Whatever,” she says.
An old man takes a seat. He sighs and kicks the kebab box into the next row.
A young woman takes a seat. She sighs and kicks the kebab box into the next row.
A teenager takes a seat. He...
November 2012
1 post
Becoming
The six-year-old and her friend stand in a vast dressing-up closet.
“What shall we be?” they ask in unison, marvelling at their options.
I am witnessing the very earliest indulgence of the soul’s favourite pastime: that of seeking an alternative reality.
Most of the things we do are an attempt to escape ourselves.
We watch films and become their characters. We take drugs and become a product of...
October 2012
1 post
Sin, agog
The six-year-old and I arrive at the synagogue, engulfed by morning fog.
“Please leave any mobile phones with me and collect them upon exiting,” says a man at the door.
“I don’t have a phone,” I say, as we pass through.
We take a seat in God’s cold gold home.
Halfway through the service, I notice the six-year-old staring at my thigh, open-mouthed.
A quick glance down reveals the source of her...
September 2012
2 posts
Nothing
I am making tea when the Jeremy Kyle theme tune suddenly permeates the mansion.
I march to the TV room, where I find the six-year-old sitting suspiciously in front of a blank screen.
“What were you watching?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she replies, nervously.
Later, she reclines on the chaise lounge, engrossed in the iPad.
“What are you watching?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she replies, nervously.
Bedtime comes. I...
Goatcha!
The six-year-old scales the stairs of the mansion. She is wearing army fatigues, a pair of oversized sunglasses, a woolly hat and a comically large back-pack.
“Let’s go,” she says, nonchalantly.
We board a bus bound for the zoo.
We see snakes and elephants and lions and gorillas. But the six-year-old doesn’t appear to enjoy them. She is on edge and refuses to remove or explain her attire.
“I want...
August 2012
2 posts
Winds of Change
The six-year-old sits atop a glacier of gifts.
She asks for silence, ensures all eyes are on her, and begins the ritual of unwrapping.
She smiles dutifully and gives thanks until the glacier has melted into a sea of toys and the audience have dispersed.
“Can we take my new remote-controlled car to the park?” she asks.
“Sure, birthday girl,” I smile.
She drives her car around the park merrily,...
Hunted
The rain relentlessly strikes the window as the five-year-old and I begin our fifth game of snap.
“I want to go out,” she sighs, looking scathingly to the grey heavens.
“Me too,” I say, slamming down a card.
“Let’s make a shelter,” she suggests, stuffing the cards back into their box.
We throw on rain coats and run into the garden, sliding on the grass and splashing in the watery earth. We collect...
July 2012
5 posts
Dig
Someone has purchased the five-year-old a metal detector.
“Let’s find some treasure,” she says, marching out of the door.
We scan every inch of the local park, to no avail.
“Stupid park,” she says, as we head home.
Later, she suggests we try the garden. We begin scanning.
Suddenly, the device beeps and we gasp and ready our spades.
Our activity represents a wider truth: we scan our worlds, looking...
Dream
The 5-year-old is fascinated by The Ocado Man.
When he arrives, she hides behind the pillar in the kitchen and watches, in awe, as he places the shopping bags on the counter.
When he leaves, she asks questions:
“Where does he get his uniform?”
“Where does he live?”
“How did he get that job?”
I tell her I don’t know.
“I want to be The Ocado Man,” she says, dreamily.
An endorsement of the illusion...
Disciple
“I can rap,” says the five-year-old.
“Go on then.”
“I’ll put your face in your lap / Niggers try to be the king but the ace is back.”
In my sternest tone, I explain to her what ‘nigger’ means. She vows never to use the word again.
Later, as we play Buckaroo, the 13-year-old strolls past, rapping:
“I’ll put your face in your lap / Niggers try to be the king but the ace is back…”
I chase him...
Dillon
The fourteen-year-old is crying. She is lying face down on her bed, as her sharp shoulder-blades judder to the rhythm of her wails.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask.
She picks her head up to look at me. Tears and snot have merged on her face to form a shiny mask of misery.
“Dillon dumped me,” she sobs.
“I’m sorry.”
“It hurts.”
“You’ve just got to ride it out.”
“But Dillon’s my soul mate.”
“Time heals...
Absolved
The mixed changing room is closed.
“Will you be okay on your own in the ladies?” I ask the five-year-old.
“Yeah.”
“Cool. Shout if you need me.”
She ambles in.
She shouts my name.
“What?” I shout back.
“There’s a fire extinguisher in here.”
“Do not touch the fire extinguisher.”
“Okay.”
“Is there anyone else in there?”
Silence.
“Is there anyone else in there?!”
I hear the sound of a fire...
June 2012
4 posts
Gamble
I am in the newsagents with the five-year-old, who is perusing the sweet shelf for her post-swim treat.
She is suddenly distracted by something in the corner of the shop.
“What’s that?” she asks, pointing at the source of her intrigue.
“The lottery,” I inform her.
“What’s the lottery?”
I explain the Lottery.
“Can I choose the lottery instead of a Kinder Egg?”
“Sure,” I say, “choose your...
Bum Chums
It is Saturday morning. I am taking the five-year-old to a dance class.
“Do you want me to watch or can I hang out in the café?” I ask her.
“Watch,” she demands.
The kids speed up and down the gym while the parents sit, bag-laden, grey, miserable, on the surrounding benches. I wearily take my seat next to one of them and contemplate an escape.
Then something beautiful floats through the swing...
The Apprentice
Since burning his friend’s Bar Mitzvah invitation, the thirteen-year-old has had his allowance suspended. For this reason, I’m intrigued when I see him flashing a fistful of fivers.
“Where’d you get that money?” I ask.
“I got a job.”
“Doing what?”
“Something” he says, as his Blackberry pings, “that’s work. Gotta go. I’m on call.”
He remains on call for several days. His phone doesn’t stop...
Star
“I’m going to be on TV”, the five-year-old tells me, “6pm on Tuesday on BBC One.”
She really is going to be on TV. Some footage of her class taking part in a reading exercise is to be featured on a news item.
She is excited by her pending fame and tells everyone: Grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, great-aunts, uncles, great-uncles , cousins, second cousins, family friends, postmen, shop...
May 2012
6 posts
Strange Clouds
I am play-fighting with the five-year-old when the fire alarm goes off. I tell her to wait in the garden, and I go to investigate.
On the first floor there is no evidence of a fire.
On the second floor there is no evidence of a fire.
On the third floor there is no evidence of a fire.
On the fourth floor I smell smoke.
I cautiously ascend to the fifth floor, where the stench becomes more pungent.
I...
Divided Wii Fall
A Wii has been purchased and installed in the playroom.
“Right, what shall we do first; archery, bowling, sailing, table tennis, boxing or golf?”
“Table tennis”, say the thirteen-year-old and five-year-old, simultaneously.
I hand them each a controller.
“Okay, first to six wins.”
They adopt a ready-for-action stance and begin.
The thirteen-year-old takes the lead: 1-0.
“Ha”, he scoffs.
2-0
“You...
Don't Let Me Fall
The thirteen-year-old has composed a speech, for his friend’s Bar Mitzvah. He is reading it to me:
“When I was asked to write this speech, I thought: Great, I’ve got three minutes to embarrass Max…”
“Ha! Good…”
“Max is my best friend. I have had the pleasure of knowing him for most of my life…”
“Nice…”
“He is the most charming person I have ever met. Whenever we are late back from lunch, he just...
When
The fourteen-year-old has experienced an epiphany: She has become aware of the futility of our existence. This flash of reality has exposed her susceptible soul to the wolves, who are circling.
“What’s the point?” she says, when I suggest she eat her vegetables.
“To be healthy and live longer.”
“We’re going to die. It doesn’t make a difference when.”
She scrapes her carrots into the...
Familiar Melody
When I’m at work, my phone never leaves my side. The tech-savvy teenagers would discover my Twitter and Tumblr in seconds. The protectiveness I exhibit arouses a curiosity in them.
I sit on the sofa watching Waterloo Road with the thirteen-year-old. In a rare display of carelessness, I place the phone on my lap and rest my hands in my jean pockets. The boy seizes his moment – he snatches the...
Damaged
I am watching football clips on the iPad with the five-year-old, when I hear a scream.
I sprint toward the source of the sound. I discover the thirteen-year-old lying on the kitchen floor, clutching his foot.
“Fuuuck!” he shouts.
“What happ-”
“Fuuucking cuuunt!”
“Calm down. Have you hurt your foot? Let me see.”
He releases his foot, which has begun to swell.
“Blimey.”
“Fucking shit it’s broken...
April 2012
4 posts
Dad
Every evening, at 8pm, the father returns home from work. He says “hello”, then trots upstairs to “answer emails”. Last night, for the first time, I quietly followed in the footsteps of his curious nightly ascent.
It is said that we fill voids. We work or watch TV or go on the internet or chat or exercise. Nothingness has been misidentified as modern man’s predator, and we escape it by letting it...
The Morning Paints the Bedroom in a Shade of Grey
On Monday, the five year old says:
“Guess what I am thinking about.”
I guess cars.
“Wrong.”
I guess football.
“Wrong.”
I guess trees.
“Wrong.”
On Tuesday, the five year old says:
“Guess what I am thinking about.”
I ask if it’s the same thing she was thinking about yesterday. She says yes.
I guess Shops.
“Wrong.”
I guess gymnastics.
“Wrong.”
I guess Cheestrings.
“Wrong.”
On Wednesday, the five year...
All Innocence and Sin
Someone has removed the laces from my shoes.
“Where are my shoelaces?” I ask the five-year-old.
“I don’t know”, she says.
“Where are my shoelaces?” I ask the thirteen-year-old.
“I don’t know”, he says.
“Where are my shoelaces?” I ask the fourteen-year-old.
“I don’t know”, she says.
Hmmm.
“You haven’t seen my shoelaces, have you?” I ask the housekeeper.
“No”, she says.
“You haven’t seen my...
Out-foxed
The sun darts through a poky window and bathes a small section of matte granite surface in the kitchen. This is where I choose to stand, to make lunch. Through the portal also comes sound; a shrill shout from the five-year-old, who is playing outside:
“There’s a fox in the garden!”
I tell her to be nice to it and I slice the bread.
“It’s eating the plants!”
I tell her to move slowly towards it, so...
March 2012
7 posts
Naive
I am to take the fourteen-year-old to see a psychiatrist.
“Why do you need to see a psychiatrist?” I ask her, as we leave.
“Apparently because I’m disorganised… and have a bad attention span.”
“Okay.”
“It’s bullshit.”
“Okay.”
“It really is bullshit.”
We trudge up the hill. She has been learning about communism at school. She is opposed to it because she believes humans are intrinsically selfish...
Gob-smacked
I am a spitter. I spit in gutters, I spit on pavements, I spit on tarmac. I spit when I run, I spit when I walk. I had, however, managed to avoid spitting in front of the five-year-old, until recently…
In hindsight, I blame the sun – it had dulled my senses and exacerbated the productivity of my salivary gland. I regretted the expulsion, before my phlegm hit the road.
“Did you just spit?”...
Lord, Make Me A Rainbow
Every week, I pick the five-year-old up from swimming. When I arrive this week, there is an unfamiliar face on reception. It is wrinkly, sprinkled with bleach-blonde hair and adorned with gold-rimmed glasses. It has a slither of a top lip, with no discernable bottom, and the mouth is taut and pouty, like an anus.
“Hello”, I say, “I’m here to pick up *****.”
“And who are you?” asks the face,...
Fucking Faggot
I am in the garden, playing football with the five-year-old, when the thirteen-year-old comes over to introduce his friend.
“This is Matthew”, he says.
“Hi Matthew, nice to meet you”, I smile.
“Alright, faggot”, he responds, “can you take a punch?”
Before I can answer, he punches my arm.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Punching you, faggot.”
He swings his fist again and connects with my...
Blood in my eyes, for you
“What is this stuff?” asks the five-year-old, plunging a stick into the pond.
“What stuff?”
“This stuff. Like bubbly jelly. I’m squashing it.”
I look into the pond.
“Oh no, don’t squash them, they’re alive!”
“What are they?”
“Frogspawn.”
“What?”
“Frogspawn.”
“Huh?”
“Frogspawn.”
“What’s that?”
“Like, frog eggs.”
“I hate frogs”, she says, thrashing them once more with her stick.
I confiscate the...
Alarm
“What’s this?” asks the five-year-old, proffering her palm.
“Christ, where did you get that!?”
“I found it. What is it?”
“Where did you find it!?”
“In someone’s coat.”
“Whose coat?”
“Someone’s”
“Give it to me.”
“No”.
“Hand it over, now.”
“No.”
“You stole it, it’s not yours, give it to me.”
“No. What is it?”
“This is your last chance, hand it over.”
“No.”
“Right.”
I walk towards her.
“I’ll press...
Grenade
“Don’t forget to take the fourteen-year-old to the hairdressers”, says the mum, as she leaves.
“I won’t”, I reassure her.
She spins around and regards my hair curiously.
“You could get something done too, if you like, just put it on our account.”
“Thanks.”
I look in the mirror. It could do with trimming, smartening up. The fourteen-year-old bounds down the stairs.
“Stop looking in the mirror. You...
February 2012
4 posts
Bell: End
I am on the bus with the five-year-old, when she presses the bell.
*DING*
“Don’t do that, we’re not getting off yet.”
*DING*
“Hey, stop it. That will really annoy the driver.”
*DING*
I sigh and cover the bell with my hand.
*DING*
“How did you do that!?”
She points to the bell behind her. I attempt to cover that too, but it is an awkward stance to maintain.
“I can’t hold both bells, so just stop...
Low Blow
“Grab me by the throat”, demands the fourteen-year-old.
“What?”
“I’ve been learning self-defence. Grab me by the throat.”
I tentatively place a hand on her neck.
“Both hands, tighter!”
“Are you sure-”
“Yes!”
I wrap my hands tightly around her neck.
“Okay, this might hurt”, she warns, before attempting to undo my hold with an elaborate arm movement. My grip remains. She looks perplexed and...
Faith In Blue
I like the kid’s guitar tutor. She has mellifluous blonde hair, aqua-blue eyes, fleshy lips, taut skin and milky teeth. She is a dinky doll with snap-able limbs.
I like her most in winter, because the bitter cold blushes her skin, and her blue eyes look bluer.
She arrives this evening, in a black beret sprinkled with snow. And those eyes, inviting vortexes.
“It’s cold out there. Snowing a little”,...
FFD
FFD (noun, abbr. Fostering of False Defiance): A tactic I frequently employ to elicit cooperation from the five-year-old. E.g.:
“Put your cup in the dishwasher.”
“No.”
“Please don’t put your cup in the dishwasher.”
“Haha, look, I am putting my cup in the dishwasher!”
It is short term solution that ultimately feeds her disobedience, but I don’t give a shit. Sometimes, things just need to get...
January 2012
2 posts
Re-energizzzzed
It’s Wednesday. I’m on my way to pick up the 12 year old, from a massage session. “She has an entrance exam on Friday”, explains the mum, “I want her to feel re-energised, but relaxed, you know?”
I enter the massage parlour. I shout the 12 year old’s name at a deaf Chinese lady on reception, and she points me to a seat.
I wait.
The 12 year old emerges, shuffling, dreamy, her eye-lids heavy. She...
Por-NO!
I need a new laptop, but they are expensive. My employers are very wealthy. If the five-year-old were to spill something on my laptop and break it, they would buy me a new one, right?
Right.
I stuff the laptop into my bag, and head to the mansion.
“What’s in your bag?” asks the five-year-old.
“My laptop. I have to send an email”.
I plonk it on the table.
“Would you like a drink?”
“No. Shall we...
December 2011
2 posts
XXX-MAS
We tumble into the house, giggling, glove-clad, breathy. We slam the door on the dark and the cold. We are welcomed by the warmth of the mansion.
We work as a team to get the tree into the drawing room. We huff and puff and settle it into its stand. We high-five. We stand back, proud, and assess it. It is beautiful, but bare. It is a shame; we must dress it.
The fourteen year old takes her place...
Puzzle
The parents return home at midnight. The mother heads straight upstairs. The dad addresses me:
“Before you go, could you help me with something?”
“Sure”.
I follow him down to the bowels of the building. He is unsteady on his feet and his eyes are bloodshot.
We arrive in the play room, where a massive TV is waiting to be unboxed and mounted.
“How’s life?” he asks, as we lift the TV from its...
November 2011
3 posts
Ballet
After ballet, I take the 5 year old to the sweet shop, where she is allowed to choose a small treat. She doesn’t like ballet, prefers rugby, so it is essentially a bribe.
She chooses, as she usually does, a Kinder Egg. She eats it while walking home, in her pink tights and tutu, shoving the chocolate into her face with one hand, clasping the toy in the other.
When we get home, she immediately...
Rocks
The five year old and I are on our way to the Natural History Museum.
“This is exciting, isn’t it?” I prompt.
“Yeah, I can’t wait to see the rocks”, she replies, sincerely.
“Well, there’s lots of other things to see, like-”
“I want to see the rocks.”
When we arrive, a security man asks to check my bag.
“There’s nothing in there, just sandwiches”, says the five year old.
The man ignores her,...
"There Has Been A Murder"
It is common for me to discover the 5 year old peering into the fish bowl. She likes to watch them swim, and to wind them up by banging on the glass. I tend to leave her to it.
On Friday, I spotted her with a fistful of fish food, ready to be chucked into the tank.
“No!” I shouted. “Don’t give them that much food. Just a pinch.”
“Why?”
“Because if they eat too much, they will die”, I informed...
October 2011
7 posts
Pin Pain
I am about to take the 5 year old to Sainsbury’s, to get some Halloween stuff.
“Could you get me some cash while you’re there?” asks the mum. “Take my card. The pin is 4532”.
“Sure”, I say, storing the numbers in my brain.
We arrive at Sainsbury’s and head to the cashpoint.
“Let me see that card”, says the five year old. “That’s not yours. That’s mummy’s. Did you steal it?”
“No. She let me use...
Gullible
I am playing snakes and ladders with the 5 year old, when the housekeeper discreetly beckons me into the laundry room. I telI the 5 year old that I am popping to the loo, to throw her off the scent.
“Close the door”, says the housekeeper.
“What’s up?”
“Just close the door.”
I close the door. She is animated, thrilled.
“I was just doing the laundry, and I always check pockets, you know, so nothing...
Sweets and Key Ring
It is the 5 year old’s first day at Sunday school. When I arrive at the mansion, she is playing snakes and ladders, on her own, in her army outfit.
“We have to leave in five minutes! You’re not ready!”
“I’m not going.”
“Why?”
“It’s boring.”
“It will be so much fun. There will be amazing stories and you’ll play games and-”
“Will there be sweets and key rings?”
“Huh?”
“I’m only going if I get...
Pussy
It is Saturday evening. The mother has given permission for a film to be watched. The 13 year old, the 5 year old, and I, are gathered around the DVD shelf.
“I want to watch Waterloo Road”, asserts the 5 year old, “What is Waterloo Road?”
“We’re watching Borat”, says the 13 year old.
“No. The Notebook”, says the 5 year old.
“That’s gay”, says the 13 year old.
“It’s not gay”, argues the 5 year...
