Chronologically disadvantaged
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Somehow I found myself back in the Village of the Damned this Bank Holiday. Partly because Lucy seems to like it there (yet more evidence, if evidence be needed, that she is mad as cake), but mainly because my father has a nice line in emotional blackmail ("Your mother is really missing you. She thinks you're avoiding coming home." Got it in one, Dad). By the time we arrived in the Village of the Damned the sun was cracking the flags. We bowled up to the house in Lucy's little Fiat to be greeted by the alarming spectacle of my mother watering the hanging baskets, wearing a bikini. Which is not a good look for a lady of her size. Me: Oh good Lord. Lucy: Oh my. She probably should have depilated before wearing that. Me: Great. Now I'm going to have to go back into therapy. My mother saw us and gave a cheerful little wave, which made the skin under her arms wobble. Lucy parked in the turning circle. I swivelled in my seat and whispered to her. Me: Now don't forget the plan. We stick around until after lunch, then you get a migraine and we get the hell out of Dodge. Okay? Lucy: Sure thing, boss. We got out and greeted my mother, who gave us both a large hug. Unfortunately, she was slathered with factor 50 Ambre Soleil which, as well as making her look like a 17th century courtesan, left big greasy smears all over my t-shirt. She bustled us into the house, filling the air with chatter - how-was-your-journey, isn't-this-weather-amazing, cup-of-tea-anyone, lunch-won't-be-long, I-hope-you're-both-hungry-I've-made-far-too-much-as-usual, your-father-won't-be-a-sec-he's-just-greasing-the-bird-table. Ah, yes. My father and his bird table. Since his retirement, my father has become something of a bird enthusiast. My parents' garden has no fewer than five bird-boxes, four bird feeders and one bird table. The latter is a large, wrought-iron structure and is my father's pride and joy - he loves to watch the robins and thrushes and tits (heh heh) feeding on the smorgasbord of dried fruit and bacon rind that he leaves out for them. But this avian Garden of Eden has its snake, its very own Lucifer. And yea, in the Garden of Bland the Devil doth come in the guise of the grey squirrel. And these squirrels do shimmy up the metal stand of the bird table and do feast upon the food left for the birds. And there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth. My father has been waging a war of attrition against the squirrels, or the "evil little rats" as he prefers to call them. At first he shot them with his air rifle, but then he "accidentally" shot the Neale's cat (a horrible, squash-faced creature called Noel that my father has been trying to run over for years - my childhood resounded to the sound of wheels spinning on gravel and feline yowls of protest) and he was banned from using it by the local council. Now he fires small pebbles at the squirrels using a catapult he picked up on holiday in the Lake District. He hasn't hit any yet, but "I will, my lad, I will" he says, with a maniacal gleam in his eye. But this whole greasing the bird table ploy was a new one on me. So Lucy and I traipsed into the garden to see what in the name of God my father was up to. Sure enough, he was on his knees in one of the flower beds, smearing the stand of the bird table with KY-Jelly from a big pot. Me: Uhhhh.... Dad? Father: Ah, there you are! We were expecting you an hour ago. Is it too much to expect you to be on time? I ignored this. They call me 'Late' for a reason, you know. Me: I know there's a simple explanation for this. And I'm probably going to regret even asking. But why are you smearing your bird table with lube? ("I'll bet you never thought you'd have cause to say that," Lucy whispered in my ear). His face lit up. Father: A-ha! Just wait and see. Come on, come into the conservatory. We followed him inside, and stood regarding the bird table for a while. Me: Um, Dad, what are we supposed to be...? Father: Shhh! Wait... wait... ah! There's one of the little buggers now! A squirrel scampered across my parents' immaculately trimmed lawn. It paused before the bird table and looked around to check there were no maniacs with catapults trying to send it to squirrel heaven. Satisfied that the coast was clear, it started to shimmy up stand of the bird table - then slid back to the ground. It tried again, with the same result. After a third try saw it slide down again the squirrel ran away with a distinct air of bewilderment. My father punched the air. Father: That's right! Run away, you evil little rat! Ha ha! He turned to me, looking smug. Father: So what do you think? Not bad, eh? Me: Mmmm. Very good. Father: I tried using Vaseline at first, but it wasn't tremendously effective. This KY-Jelly stuff your mother gave me is far better. The buggers can't get any sort of grip with this spread everywhere. Ha ha! Me: Yeah, that's... um... great, Dad. Inner Voice: The old man's finally lost it. Next stop, Alzheimer's. Fortunately, my mother called us all in for lunch before my father could start ranting about how squirrels were vermin and how he was doing a public service by wiping the little buggers out. And after lunch Lucy "suddenly" developed a migraine so we had to go home. Via the pub, naturally. We were into our second pint, sitting in companionable silence, when she put her hand on mine. Lucy: Do you know something? I think you might be adopted. Which is possibly the nicest thing that anyone who has met my parents has ever said to me.
Nature or nurture?
1.6.04 17:29
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(1.6.04 17:34) Do you think your dad knows anything about nomobile's bunny? |
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(1.6.04 17:38) I wouldn't put it past him. My father is rather partial to rabbit pie. The little creatures of the world fear him. He is their Nemesis. |
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(1.6.04 17:41) I won't ask... I won't ask... I won't ask... ...but it's bouncing round my head. |
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(1.6.04 17:43) Go on. Ask. I think I can guess what your question will be. |
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(1.6.04 17:46) *ahem* no, s'alright. |
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(1.6.04 17:48) Go on. We're all friends here. |
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(1.6.04 17:51) it's about the KY isn't it, Snags? I wanted to ask too...but I'm too much of a lady.. |
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(1.6.04 17:52) why has your mum got a giant pot of lube? |
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(1.6.04 17:54) Oh god..oh god, Snags - that is just asking for such a vulgar reply.....this is Late's MUM we're talking about... |
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(1.6.04 17:54) Probably to combat some sort of dryness. Beyond that, I really don't want to think. At all. |
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(1.6.04 17:55) Does she run marathons? *hopes* |
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(1.6.04 17:58) Alas, no. |