Surly, sensitive sourpuss



Have you had one of those days where everything annoys you? I’ve got one of those lives. Every sound, movement and action seems to get me riled more than it should. It’s as if my sensitivity dial is up to eleven and the cacophony of the world is being drilled in from all angles.

First there’s child one. I know all children need to learn to read but there are several issue with this. Firstly please stop sending books home that have about as much of a storyline as the average episode of The Royle Family about them. F*ck all happens in any of the ones I’ve had to sit through so far. Is it too much to ask that there is such a thing as a plot to be used? Bland story after bland story is replayed when there are so many great classic fairy-tales and children’s stories that they would be better off with. Those Ladybird Books we all had as kids need a comeback in the classroom.

Then there’s the delivery of the words. The unwavering ability to get words wrong because he’s not paying the slightest bit of attention (because of the lack of storyline) is impressive. Then there’s the slow pace that makes you as the listener lose interest – you know like when your teacher used to ask certain kids to read in class and you knew you were in for the long haul. I know it’s cruel and he’s just learning – I just wish he’d learn quicker.

Then there’s child two who has decided to get herself infected with tonsillitis for the forty-second time this year and thinks that by fake coughing she will display this illness better. To be fair the spewing on Friday night and continued bad breath is clue enough. You can hear the forced air being expelled from her little lungs just to force out a cough that sounds as real as a watch with “rollux” written across the face of it. But now she’s faked it so much she is actually coughing, making the whole situation worse. Yes she’s ill, but can we not just get the doc to remove the tonsils and be done with it now rather than this newfangled attitude that we should leave them in?

Then there’s the darling wife who has to live with those two and me as well. She’s currently on full baby mode and has been writing her lists – a trait she inherited from her own dad – for everything. From things we need to buy to filling in the paperwork for her mat leave she’ll keep asking me what I think. We all know that men don’t think as a rule and if we’re watching TV – even re-runs of Top Gear on Dave for hundredth time – out brains cannot cope with anything else. Especially at the weekend. So I may respond with a grumpy “What?” when asked about fitted sheets for the cot bed or looking for monitors because the truth is I don’t know or really have a strong opinion about it. She then gets pissed off with me for my “attitude” and “disinterest” in our third child. I’m not disinterested, I’m sure like its siblings it too will be ill and bad at reading initially and I’ll listen and comfort correctly.

I think it’s the mind-reading skills I am supposed to have that cause the issues. You know, the things she “definitely” told you but you weren’t listen to and now it’s your fault. That. You rake through your mind and realise that she probably did mention it amongst dozens of other things around four weeks ago. Maybe I need to write lists too…

But reading all this back, maybe it’s not me that’s grumpy and sullen? Perhaps I’m the normal one in a house of lunatics.


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