Thursday, 21 July 2016

So, anyway, dad.

This new conversation began as so many have with my daughter (allegedly). A handful of adverbs bolted together with a shamefaced grin of regret, or glee at what was to come.
    I tried not to sigh audibly since that always encourages her to even more excesses of verbal diahorrea before finally getting to the point.
    "What have you broken or destroyed this time?" The crestfallen expression on her face was almost (but not quite) enough to bear what came next.
    'You know we've been at this stable for a while now?' She's referring to the latest, and possibly sixteenth stable in the past five years where her horses are currently parked. I knew it couldn't last. A whole six months without having to haul her ever increasing collection of mangy nags to another...
    'Well we've got to go. And I thought that you'd be able to help us on Friday, since you're not working.' There, her simple smile told me; it would all be so simple.
    'Who in this world, or at least my world doesn't work on a Friday? And how are we going to move - how many horses is it this week, about twenty, across presumably miles of grungy little cart tracks too small for a underweight gerbil let alone horse transporter; and if you think I'm carrying them you can think again. Even that mutant Shetland weighs about three tons on its own and I'm still paying for the last move.'
    That's as far as it went because I stumbled from the house before I had either a seizure or spontaneously combusted. 
    It's not over - unless I put my new razor's blurb to the test and give myself the ultimate shave.


  1. This is your early-morning alarm call – it’s Friday, time to get up and move those horses!!

  2. And do you know what? My boss decided to stay in France and not come home for the weekend. So you know what I have to do. Where's that razor?
    Oh, and thanks for the sympathy by the way - not!