Je M’appelle Charlie. Je suis pissed off.
Oh yeah, that’s right… not only do I have to a part time Carol Vorderman, a literary genius, history buff and totally undo everything that I believe a bus stop to be – now I have to be bilingual!
Granted this is all Primary School level but allow me to be over-dramatic for a moment here please. I simply can’t work in these conditions.
Today I’m teaching French. Considering I thought Derek Trotter was speaking fluent on that tv programme ‘Only Fools and Horses’ and could never understand why everyone was laughing at him, this is a sight to behold. Even reading it from a book it is little more than pigeon French. The way my girls are looking at me when I really throw myself at the pronunciation... I even wrap some onions round my neck and shave my beard down to a tiny moustache but it does nothing – I am no better?
Talking of doing nothing, I called the teacher today. I think she’s starting to get the hump with me. She said no I don’t know when there is going to be live sport back on the tele and if you call me again in an attempt to pass your children off on me then I will be forced to call Social Services and maybe even the police. I told her there will be no need for that. I told her I had already called both of those and neither of them would take the little b@stards off me either.
Well! Merci very much!
Week TWO is off to a sweary start.
I only know today is Monday because I asked Alexa. The weekend passed in a blur or getting up, then going back to bed again – likely twice. In-between these two major events I also know that I read articles on my phone entitled ‘breast enlargement – options you didn’t know existed,’ ‘all the things you didn’t know about your own body,’ and ‘size really matters – what size garden to the happiest people have?’ I know that I read them in their entirety too, I just don’t know why.
Oh yes I do. Sh#t I’m bored…
The cars are polished to within an inch of their lives (the wife has taken to doing her hair makeup using the bonnet on the one on the drive) the garden looks like the Royal Botanic Gardens – I even trimmed my bush to look like an exclamation mark – and I’m so well practiced on a child-size basketball hoop that I do the movement to help me get to sleep at night.
Which brings me onto bored children. Like trying to drown a bag of cats in lake they are (no complaints! I haven’t actually tried! The car broke down…) – all elbows, spitting, clawing, complaining and trying to get the tape off the neck.
Sunday I managed to cobble a Sunday roast together for a little sense of normality and to have an excuse not to be the one keeping the kids occupied for an hour or two. The meat centre piece came from the bottom of the freezer. What it actually was I am still none the wiser. When I found it I clearly remembered doing it – that is putting a lump of something brown and meaty in a freezer bag and labelling it Mystery Meat! because I sometimes do things I think will be funny when my wife later finds it. Fortunately, in the circumstances, it was me who found this one. And I didn’t tell her the backstory to her dinner. I didn’t want to ruin it.
And I’m a vegetarian so what do I care...
To finish Sunday my wife and I ran a quiz on one of these video-conference apps. This is the same facility as important business people based all over the world use to get together on the same monitor screen to talk about important business, the sort of thing that might go on to shape all of our lives. The Prime Minister is using a similar video-conferencing facility currently to run the country from his self-isolation at this very moment.
I used it to ask questions such as ‘who did Michael Jackson marry’ and asking those taking part to identify the lyrics from the rap ‘classic’ getting’ jiggy wit it. Members of the family and close friends were asked to position their camera phones so they could be seen and heard with the idea being of bringing a pub quiz to their living room. A lovely idea I thought. Sure enough, every member of my family managed to arrange their camera just so. And by that, I mean just so I could spend ninety minutes staring at their nostril hair. It’s like a car crash. You should look away, you want to look away, but you can’t look away.
Time for a lovely little glass of Rioja and then a few more basketball hoops in bed while the wife moans about her tummy ache. Honestly: moan, moan, moan with her.