Too Many F Words

It is Day Three of The Holidays and Boy Seymour has just called his sister a fucking idiot.

I guess this is to be expected… the incessant sibling holiday agro. But I must admit to being slightly horrified at the language he has chosen to use. I am in no uncertainty over where he gets it from. My bad.

But I have always been under the illusion that my children know what they can and cannot copy. I only swear when stressed. I guess he did the same…

The trouble all started when we collected five wet straw bales from a friend. She had bales going begging, I have four guinea pigs. I couldn’t not make the most of this opportunity. Despite the rain, and the fact that The Shiny Van is supposed to be clean and tidy, as we had been on a dump run anyway, I decided to ram five wet bales into the already messy van on the way home, and by and large, the mission was a success.

But, upon returning home to The Funny Little Bungalow, I realised that I then had to lug five heavy bales all the way down to the only dry storage space left – the greenhouse at the bottom of the garden.

I know! I thought to myself. I shall put the children to work. They don’t do much to help out, and this is a job we can all do! So I summoned my home-grown, in-house workforce.

We had a semi-disastrous moment when Number Two didn’t realise that bailer twine is actually not decorative (- the garden at this point became covered in straw). Number One helped me carry a bale, and Mini Seymour collected up a few strands. But then, rather ingeniously, Boy and Number Two deployed a pair of ancient bike trailers that usually lie prostrate in the ditch, lifted the bales on board together and managed to hurtle down the garden at full speed, effortlessly carrying one each. It was sight to behold – the epitome of intelligence and cooperation. Teamwork!

It wasn’t to last. In the true spirit of the school holidays, EVERYTHING is argument-worthy, and so, when they hurtled back up the garden to find only one bale left to move (clearly they both wanted to do it), a shouting match ensued, at the end of which Boy Seymour hurled the aforementioned obscenity at his sister.

I sent him to his room, where he spent ten minutes ululating the unfairness of his life. I might have spent longer worrying about my son’s degenerative behaviour and filthy mouth if I hadn’t got bigger fish to fry. Because the budget has run out.