Dignity Dawg

Today I lost some dignity.

This is not unusual.

No. Not for me. My life is beset by minor indignities.

These are the sort of occurrences that shouldn't actually happen to people more than once per century. For instance, last week I lost my credit card - just moments after finding my wallet. This just seems like a minor, slightly ironic everyday event, I admit. But this morning, after waiting a week for the bugger to arrive, I hastily ripped open the envelope only to watch my new card fall out, magically float through the air, flutter around a bit and, almost intelligently, slip through a narrow crack between the floorboards into the dark space below the house where the bears and witches live.

But this is not the indignity I am talking about.

Also today, my business partner and fellow fuckwit decided, against my advice, that it would be wise to drive a hundred miles off route on the way to a meeting with a major client, making us an hour-and-a-half late. This wouldn't have been so embarrassing if last time we had done a job for them he hadn't got frustrated and ended up accidentally sending out a hundred DVD copies of a children’s theatre event that displayed the word BOLLOCKS when inserted into a computer.

But that isn't the massive crushing embarrassment I am talking about. Oh no.

Was it when The Lady snapped commands in front of friends today - and I obediently followed on, looking for all the world like her bitch?

Nah, that happens all the time. I'm a dad now and my own personality and capacity to make my own decisions has been gently badgered away and replaced with a clockwork timer, installed, owned and operated by The Lady.

No, no, it was none of these. It was... Let me set the scene for you:

I'd been in the car all day: attending meetings (late) and sorting out a new strand for the company (incomplete). We'd been stuck in traffic (boring) and had grabbed sausage rolls, bacon butties and Snicker bars when we could (bulky). Trundling back into Liverpool (monotonous) in a diesel engined Fiesta Classic (rumbling) then picking up the kids (grumbling). We took them to restaurant/adventure play area/pub/industrial unit and ate sizeable portions of pubgrubmuck (fudgy). By the time we got back to the house things were stirring.

Lets just say there was about to be an eruption, possibly a tsunami, in the region of the world I like to refer to as the "Specific Rim".

I made excuses about having to take some medicine and headed off up to the thunderbox. I'll spare you the details, but lets just say I didn't have to work too hard to achieve quite impressive results. I relaxed for a moment to read my current bog-book - one about the history of film editing when...

...When the door flew open and there stood, neatly framed in the doorway, was my family. My beautiful lady and my two adorable little girls all stood frozen, watching me mid-crap, legs apart with a book in my hands.

I stared back.

They stared harder.

I raised a quizzical eyebrow.

They raised six.

A pause.

I mumbled incoherently about not thinking it was bathtime just yet.

No reply.

Another mumble about there being no lock.

More silence.

I tried a wry smile.

Nothing.

"Hello Daddy!" Mali, our cute little two-year-old had ended the standoff.

I blinked.

They sniffed and wrinkled their noses.

"Mali, please close the door." I said evenly.

"No," she stated firmly, sitting down on the step, "I want to watch."

After that, I didn't really have the will to finish the job off. She sat staring intently whilst I tried to discretely wipe. When I had finished, she turned to The Lady and Ani, our baby, and declared:

"Daddy done a poo."

A truly beautiful moment.

Mr Moonlight

This actually happened:

Three in the morning , the babies are tucked up safely in bed. I am writing a silly little screenplay about zombies. It's going well. I don't think I'll ever produce it, but it's a nice little writing exercise. it's funny, it's a bit scary. I reminds me of all my favourite zombie films. But then:

Knock knock.

On the window.

What the fuck is that? It's gone three.

Knock knock knock.

Shit.

I gingerly approach the door.

Tap tap.

Who could it be at this hour?

Bang bang.

Alright alright. I grab the door handle fustrated that they'll wake the babies. Not thinking now. I let it fly open.

What?

And he's there, standing over me. He's six-foot four. His skin is blacker than the night. His hair sticks up from his head in short, crimson-tipped dreads . His eyes are also red. The whites. Red.

It is a nightmare.

He stands for a while staring at me with emploring eyes. Please, he says, please help me.

Is he the devil? I think. He's the devil.

Please help me. Please.

What? How?

I don't know where I am. Its raining I'm cold please help.

I don't have any money in the house. How do I help? What do I do? I don't know.

Let me in. Please let me in.

No. I say no - but am I being racist in this decision? He's in need. No, he's six-foot-four. Its the dead of night. Besides he's the devil. I know this, I've seen him in films.

Please let me in. I'm lost. I'm from Uganda.

This changes matters. The devil is not from Uganda. I'm fairly sure of this matter. I read it somewhere.

Please let me sleep on your floor.

What.

Sleep. I need sleep. Let me sleep on your floor.

I can't the babies are asleep. My partner is in bed. Besides, I like my surround sound system very much.

I'm lost. Nobody cares. No one will help. It's raining. I'm cold please help me. No one will help. Who do I turn to.

I'm starting to think I am in a parable. I could be the bad Samaritan or the stupid dick who got his stuff nicked when he invited the devil into his home.

Please.

He is shivering. Is it an act?

Please...

What...

I'm cold.

I...

Please...

All I can offer you is this coat. I'm sorry. I cannot invite you in however this will keep you warm. Take it. It's yours. I'm sorry I cannot offer anything else. I am not in a position to help further. Take this though, it is warm. I'm sorry.

Thank you. Thank you. There are good people. Thank you very much. Thank you.

I close the door, have another drink and continue writing.



Ten minutes later:

Knock knock.

What now?

It doesn't fit!

Sizzle

Christ Riding a Monkey! It's Fucking Hot!

I'll paint the image for you - a fat boy sitting under perpetual fans, bleeding lymphatic juice from every orifice. Unable to sleep, even a coma-inducing fiddle seems like too much effort. Cocoa is too hot and the leather couch draws a sticky puddle of ooze that dampens his already moist pants and has The Lady standing by with a Detol-soaked sponge.

I have commandeered all the ice-pops from the freezer and gaffa-taped them to my hairy chest. They melted three hours ago, but I am now too frightened to remove them.

I pulled a pube out once and it hurt.

The only thing I can think of doing to pass the time is to revive the old weblog.

I didn't post for ages because The Lady has been on maternity leave for a year. But since I last did, I've left my job at the theatre, resigned as a director of the old film company and set up an amazing, new, witty little company called "Enormous". We are brilliant - using film as a fun, creative tool rather than as a "perfect medium" we do viral campaigns, educational projects, low-budget docs and hardcore terrapin-porn.*

In a few weeks though, I'll have to take over the old house-husband duties again. I do this with a little bit of trepidation.

I’ve kind of got used to being only my own boss.

When I say my own boss – I mean of course being at the constant beck and call of the Lady.

Soon, she will go back to work and I’ll have no one to show me how to live.

She really is bloody brilliant actually, she has an infinite supply of energy and a very limited puddle of patience. This has the effect of putting a firecracker up the arse of everyone who comes into contact with her.

She has organised the babies into a routine that’s so regular they actually float to bed on a magic rug every night at precisely 6.45pm; She’s structured and managed the Enormous marketing campaign so we now actually work on a regular basis; She’s persuaded my incredibly creative yet somewhat laisser-faire business partner to spring into furious action and do stuff; Shes cooked home-made organic meals every day for the babies; Got me to give up booze and to live healthily and has discovered a new method of turning findus crispy pancakes into a form of pure copper sulphite.**

Me, well I’m still very good at lounging. I also do a great line of staring agog, into space. I’m good at agog. I tend to trance at the slightest thing. Just seeing a bright colour can wipe my mind and leave me frozen in the same position for up to a month.*** My energy isn’t to good either. I tend to get tired just being in the company of The Lady. It starts with a sore throat and a bit of an itchy eye. The next moment I am laid flat out in front of daytime telly, with a fuzzy mind.

She says I’m lazy.

I protest. “It’s the heat,” I say. “Its too hot.”

“Get out of the freezer,” she replies “You’ll defrost the organic baby food”

Its too late though, some of the ice-pops have now burst . They have refrozen and welded me to the sides.

Christ on a mountain gorilla! It really is cold in here. Still, I don’t think I could bear to detach the gaffa-tape.

Help! Lady! Help!

It may be a while before I blog again.




* The porn bit is not true at all. I did once lightly spank a tortoise though. It’s okay – I shot it first (through the shell), so it didn’t feel a thing.

** They actually taste a lot better that way.

***I’m very much like an old P.C. while she is like a new Mac.****

**** By that I mean computers – not ancient policemen and shiny overcoats.

On Hold

This little blog is supposed to reflect my time as a stay at home daddy.

At the moment The Lady is on maternity leave and I have accepted freelance theatre work and am I setting up a new media company.

So there's no bewildered rants for the time being.

I'm sorry about that. I was enjoying it greatly but there's no time.

I'll be back in April. During that time I'll try to fit in the occasional post.

Regards,

Nappyfever.