Heartbreaking

N1's boys regularly jump over the fence to fetch errant footballs. I am somewhat suspicious that they also go through my shed and play on the swings as they seem to have a working knowledge of the swings, my punching bag and bag mitts. This is fine as long as they don't hurt themselves and sue me.

Tonight the Noodle and I played soccer with them and then showed them the new treadmill (which we've also had the repairman out for today - I was rightly suspicious of a product bearing a badge inscribed 'designed by U.S.A.'). I asked the oldest boy what happened to their side fence.

He replied. 'Mum was driving to watch me play soccer, but she couldn't find it, so she got really drunk and then she crashed into some stuff, then she came here and crashed into the fence and the police came and took her away in handcuffs.'

I felt terrible that I'd asked him, and that he'd answered so honestly. We'd heard the bang on the night of the accident and heard a woman sobbing. Knickers suspected it was their mum, who lives there periodically, so I should have been a bit more sensitive and asked N1. He is always happy to give up the goss.

I spoke to him later and he cheerily confirmed his son's story. She blew over .2 and had just got her license back from a previous DUI conviction. She apparently damaged every panel of her new merc, crashing into various parked cars and fences around the neighbourhood.

I don't want to know what sort of effect that will have on their boys, or all the other children around the country in similar circumstances.

Excuse Me

This happened a few weeks ago, but has remained with me.

Girl At Uni: Excuse me, your shirt is inside out.

Me: Umm, no the seams are just like that (jeez, get with the fashion lady).

GAU: Yes, but the tag is showing.

Me: Well the tags are on the outside (I've got a live one here).

GAU: No, the tag on the side.

Me: Yes, that one too (Spoken in a rather patronising manner).

GAU: No, the washing instruction tag.

Me: What? Oh - yes you're right. It is inside out...thanks.

Me (sometime later banging head against wall): What did I do to you oh Lord?

The Power and the Glory

Went to a multi-denominational church service on Easter Sunday. We all (seven kids, six adults) walked in late to the old wooden church to discover a performance underway.

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I was raised Catholic so am not quite sure about what goes on in what Dad calls 'Happy Clappy' churches. Most Catholics, in my experience, aren't that interested in converting others to the word. Being Catholic is a burden, a misfortune of birth and your lot in life - your cross to bear so to speak. Catholics go to church on Sunday, mumble along with the ritual, awkwardly shake hands at the "peace be with you"s, shuffle up for communion then go home for Sunday lunch; duty done for the week. Being Catholic entails the sort of crazy pride that people have for jobs that involve lots of hard work for little financial reward.

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A passionate and pretty young woman was performing a solo dramatisation of Mary Magdalene discovering the risen lord's empty tomb. She really loved Jesus...quite a lot.

She continually moaned and groaned, rubbing her hands down over her belly and pulling at the fabric of her dress stretched taught and smooth over her thighs.

'Can you imagine the pain of not being able to touch him?' she screamed.

'Funny.' heckled the Noodle and earned himself a glare from Ms Magdalene before his mother dragged him out.

The rest of the congregation were ageing, weather beaten sons and daughters of the Yorke Peninsula soil. Descendants of farming stock with sand and salt bush in their veins. What they made of this performance I couldn't say, but the old fellows certainly clapped enthusiastically at the end. Mary took a bow and swept away in her scarlet dress. Later I suggested she'd picked it for the colour, you know, because MM was a scarlet woman. Someone else suggested it was a bridesmaids dress. Who's to say.

Communion time, we were made to circle round the alter, which was fine, have our host and cordial, again fine. Then the minister grabbed the arms of the first two people and joined them together, then the next and so on. I could see where it was going. Soon we were all holding hands and singing, then the minister started swinging her arms and everyone else followed suit. So there I was holding a calloused hand of one bloke in my right and the talc scented hand of his wife in my left, swinging and singing and praying for release while Knickers and the Noodle ran around outside in the warm sun.

I consider that my duty discharged until at least Christmas.

Not Mr Percival

Had our traditional Easter at Edithburgh in a friend's parent's holiday house. First year we went there we constituted eight adults and one child. This year was eight and seven. Next, touch wood (tree of knowledge), will be at least eight all. Space is now at a premium.
Good Friday was too rough to go out fishing and the pub was closed, so we found ourselves with a dozen other families at the seaside park in Coobowie.
The Noodle has developed a recent fascination with pelicans and I'd promised him (not that he knows what a promise is) that we'd see some over the weekend. So when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large bird hovering over the beach, I wasted no time.
'Noodle. Pelican!' I took off towards him, flapping my arms, and screaming excitedly, hurdling other small children in my path.
'Pelican, Noodle, pelican!'
I swooped, plucked him from the monkey bars and tucked him under my arm. Several bounds got us to the fence separating the park from the beach.
'Look Noodle, it's a... hmm, it's a seagull.'
'Pelican?'
'No Noodle, seagull.'
'Gull.'
'Yes. Now run to Mummy, Daddy has to slink away in shame.'

Public Holiday

Lingered at a mate's house this afternoon. Nick's wife, Kelli, is away at a wedding and Knickers was working so it was like a single Dad's convention. We filled up a plastic tub for the kids to play in and sat in the sun drinking sweet cups of tea and eating doughy, sugary delights from the bakery. Then the Noodle disgraced himself by pissing in the pool.
Anyway the day passed nicely but all the supermarkets were shut by the time I went to purchase groceries. Had to content myself with milk from the servo.
Being father of the year I left the Noodle in the car (in the shade, in plain sight) while I grabbed it and made my way to the counter. Getting there I was confronted by the Canadian girl that works there (or possibly Russian) who was hiding her face behind an 'out of service' placard.
'I am a robot,' she chanted. We stared each other out for a second then she burst out laughing. 'I just go a bit crazy sometimes,' she admitted, 'I've just had like twenty people in here.'
Say something absurd back, I urged myself, reward this person for being different.
'So were they some servo tour group. Coached around Adelaide's historic servos?'
'No. They were all separate.'
'Right'

...

'Just the milk then?'
'Yes, just the milk please.'