Listen With Mother Fucker
As I attempted to start the kids’ bedtime story for the fifth time, having had to stop for
1) a toilet break for Olly
2) a toilet break (of course) for Billie (not that we hadn’t done all of this before we got into bed)
3) to rescue Oliver who had fallen down the side of the bed
4) to console Billie because she not could get Stuart (her mouse) to sit properly by the side of the bed
5) to rescue Oliver who had (again) fallen down the side of the bed.
I began to lose it and started to swear. “Get in the fucking bed. If I have to bloody well tell you again I swear I am going to seriously lose it with you. For Christ’s sake what is the matter with you? All you have to do is lie down. Yes you can see the bloody pictures. Yes I know you haven’t seen the picture, I’m going to show it to you next, yes you can see the next picture first. Yes it IS fair Oliver bloody shut up.” And I was reminded of my bed time stories with my Dad, mostly Winnie-the-Pooh, Mary Plain and Paddington (I guess bears were big in my day) and I don’t remember any swearing, which is either testament to my Dad’s patience, my good behaviour or both. Meanwhile story time chez nous sounds more like Eminem on a bad crack day, than their flaxen-haired, sweet-faced old Ma’.
And they all lived happily fucking ever bleedin’ after.
The sodding end.