Mid-August and an early morning chill brought the first late summer icy blast of child minding duties for the innocent – me. There he was, mucky paws banging on my door, mouth open salivating like next door’s labrador and face beaming with the knowledge that it was a day with his godfather and open season again.
Having barely having crawled from my pit, I mused again on why, all those years ago, they chose me. Harry, aged eight, was here again to show just how little I know about kids; what to do without having to take out a Wonga loan…surely not Tropical World again?
Unusually, I had a crammed diary of “events” well before his mother informed me that it was now jam packed with the demands of a hyperactive eight year old. Each Thursday, I normally enjoy the papers and a relaxing coffee after the strains of Pensioner’s Pilates.
The afternoon scheduled the hairdresser’s and a facial, which was supposed to be stress busting; looking after H all day was slightly counter-productive. Soon I heard the thud of the company BMW land on my driveway like a stricken Boeing 737; could they not have given her a Fiesta?
In she shoved the little cherub, lugging a hoard of electronic gadgets that would have cost a fortune in excess baggage on Ryanair and kept a suicide bomber quiet for a month looking for the detonator. Plonking on a set of headphones he looked ready for air traffic control.
Casually she informed me that her pride and joy had yet to eat; nor had I, was she offering to cook breakfast or was I now a soup kitchen for stray kids?
“What would you like to eat then mate?” which really meant did he fancy mouldy toast as that was all I had.
“Soreen!” he wailed.
I protested I had none and quickly hid my favourite snack out of view, fobbing him off with some out of date pancakes that the pigeons had been earmarked for.
Almost as quickly as the BMW screeched down the road with it’s newly liberated driver singing away to “I’m Free!” I vanished back upstairs with my coffee, pausing only to flick on the television to soothe him.
These being austere times I had long since cancelled the Disney Channels, concluding that if kids wanted to watch fat orange kids then they should move to Swansea, leaving H with the parlous choice of CBBC, which he thinks is “crap”.
“Uncle Willy” wailed the precious one barely before I had reached the sanctity of my office.
Fearing the worst (1- left porn channel on last night, 2 -already spilt juice over sofa or 3 – was about to announce he was staying all week) I trudged back down stairs.
“Look, there’s loads of fit girls for us to watch on CBBC!”.
I pondered where to start explaining that this was probably where Jimmy Saville, Stuart Hall et al started to wander from the straight and narrow when he squealed “no not them, there’s a really old one for you as well!”
It was going to be a long day.
Pilates with the silver set is rarely any trouble as each and every time I have H, the lads at the gym treat him like a king. Hot chocolate on demand, a choice of sofa and a “do not disturb” sign.
Soon he was plugged into more devices than an astronaut and I was free to enter a sea of crimplene and nylon. Today was Celia’s 132nd birthday so we all sang a song and clapped ever so loudly just in case she could not hear us before the bodily contortions began.
As an aside, lying there serenaded by Dionne Warwick, Diana Ross, The Commodores and more I mused on the fate of the good old fashioned ballad. Is this a sign of these hard times that we just don’t do real love songs anymore?
Does anybody still fall into a drunken clinch at the end of the night or wander off instead to puke up their kebab? When can you remember a really good smoocher? I was sure Celia could.
H was still plugged in when I returned, eyes following whatever popped onto the screen, headphones perched on his tiny head oblivious to the world at large.
I asked him if he needed another drink and, showing his mother’s uncanny ability to pick the most expensive item on any shopping list he said.
“I’ll have a protein shake!” These are £2.50 for a bit of milk whipped up with a sherbet dab that fat lads drink after doing nothing in the gym for an hour.
“But you’ve not bloody moved for two hours…what energy are you replacing?”
“Good point” he conceded and promptly stuck his earphones on again, offering me a considered finger.
Off we went to the hairdresser’s, a new venture run by my neighbour Nicky,whose mum acts as an unofficial neighbourhood watch, clocking me on and off as I visit the local, bouncing out of her chair quicker than the ejector seat on a fighter plane.
H sat quietly in the corner aware that a Number One was an option for civil disobedience but quietly checking out the stylists.
Lunch at last and the educational part of the day with the lifting of the last of the early potatoes to create a feast from the land. Trying to stop any kid eating as a meal is prepared is a somewhat hopeless task and H reminds me of one of those early space invader games, munching everything in sight.
After lunch it was time for recreation as the local conservative club is having some land cleared; it’s rumoured this is for allotments so we decided to go look. The short way was over my six foot wall, which he scaled like Spiderman as I clambered over like any 50 year old and thudded to the ground the other side.
No matter how hard the uninitiated try to fill a kid’s day, the bite size episodes fly by; inevitably, soon it was time to think of something else that would not cost me a fortune!
“Let’s make some cookies to help your mum’s diet!” knowing she had just hit Weight Watcher’s again like a hedgehog seeks the familiar comfort of annual hibernation.
And so we did but I knew that really his only interest was getting his mucky fingers in the remnants of the mixing bowl…just like me many dark moons ago…some bits about childhood never change and they cant make an app for a mixing bowl.
Face covered in cake mix, knees muddied, shirt looking ready for Oxfam, it was time for the final destination; the beautician’s.
“Try to look cute if you can, you might make me look sensitive and caring” I begged.
“Get a life you’ve no chance!” smirked H.
Just as we were about to set off bearing gifts from the land, an angel appeared in the form of Lady L from the mansion next door and whisked H off to play with her young son. I was suddenly free and screamed off down the street as well!
Two hours later and the BMW landed like the space shuttle; it was time to take H home…if only I knew where he was. Without a backward glance, a grunt or a cursory finger he was gone, back to protective custody and I was off to find my Dyson.
A SUMMARY – HOW TO CHILD MIND; THE GODFATHER’S APPROACH
1 – out source to anybody that might think he is cute (gym, hairdresser, neighbour…anybody really)
2 – get him really filthy and ruin new shorts so mum seeks alternatives
3 – spend absolutely nothing on him making him realise there’s no dosh here
4 – soak him from head to foot with hosepipe allowing drying time. Deny all responsibility for flu.
5 – hide your Soreen
THE END
CHILDLINE 2013
Patch says
Saving the odd slice of soreen is not going to make the z4 arrive any earlier and saying there’s no money here get real. Even I would share my soreen.
Louis Gacquin says
When I saw the title of this blog I assumed you were going to be describing another day out on the beer with Molly. Did you win at Headingley?
Christopher Smith says
I think that you seem like a really great guy. Do you have a Wotsapp? I feel it could be vital if we are to become best of friends.