Today I went to my sister’s for dinner. I’m ashamed to say that I initially felt a bit put out by her kind offer to cook for me, which is surprising to say the least. Were you to ask anyone who knows me, they would vouch that I am actually rather a big fan of dinner. They’d probably even go to the point of saying I LOVE dinner. Indeed, virtually any other time, there would be no hesitancy. But tonight I felt uneasy because I’m getting so far behind in some of my work and it has long been hanging over me like the Sword of Damocles. The particular work in question was writing-related too, and everybody knows the pen is mightier than the sword. Technically, a Bic biro tenuously hovering above you is an even greater threat than a big sharp weapon with the capacity to slice your head open. I know - Sounds daft to me too. But hey – I don’t make the rules. All I care about is the fact that I’m arguably braver than a Greek God.
I am glad I made the immense effort to go round to my sisters to get fed. It was a delight to see my nephew again. He is now visibly growing up fast. The last time I saw him I’d witnessed him stomping and stumbling around on his feet for first time. His skills are developing quickly. He can now point at certain objects when say the name of them and ask where they are, or clap his hands upon a verbal and visual cue.
Today, he was taking great amusement in a silly little action I was doing. I’d suck in air through my teeth until my lungs were full, hold my breath for a couple of seconds, then breathe out whilst doing a kind of ‘Bez’ dance with his little toy shaker. He screamed with laughter at this. It was like comedy gold to the little fella. I did it again and again and rather than this repetition becoming tedious, he would be laughing out loud every single time, sometimes with such force that he would almost fall over with excitement. I must have done it a dozen times, and rather than become bored with it, the little chap would actually run up to me and start sucking in air himself to encourage me into doing my silly dance again. It was a joyous thing to see, and for one fleeting moment I felt a twinge of sadness for never having the inclination (or, let’s be honest, opportunity) to have children of my own.
But although it felt like the fun would never end, the near fall which had terrified me the last time I saw him, actually happened for real. In the blink of an eye, he’d tripped over my lumbering foot and landed head first into one of his toys. The laughter was no more. As his screams pierced the air, all I could do was sheepishly and shamefully step away, and let his mother try and quell the flood of tears. My awkwardness was a sharp reminder that I am simply not up to the responsibility of having children of my own. How can I possibly get fooled into believing otherwise? I am barely equipped look after myself!
In one move, I had fell from being a comedy genius who could invoke hysterical laughter from his audience over and over again, to feeling like the most evil man alive. The more quick-witted of might be anticipating joke along the lines about me “knowing how Michael Barrymore must have felt.” Despite the temptation, I will show restraint. That would be a cheap shot, which would only devalue the end of this entry - which is after all, about the joys of young innocence. I feel it best so simply draw this to a close. I admit it may not be the most fulfilling of conclusions, but at least you’ll appreciate a certain level of dignity has been maintained. Maybe I am becoming more responsible after all.
Tue 10th Feb 2009
Went to a quiz evening at our local village pub. Contrary to what one particular person might assume, I do genuinely have enough friends to form a quiz team. If anything, we were faced with the opposite problem. When we first arrived, there were five members, which was the maximum number of participants allowed in a team. Any additional members came at a cost of having five points per person deducted from the team’s score. But as the rounds wore on, various friends would enter the pub and come and sit with us. And why shouldn’t they be allowed to? This was supposed to be a fun game in the social environment of a pub, not some sort of exclusionary academic examination.
In fairness, this didn’t become an issue and the curmudgeonly landlord (who read the questions out himself to save money on a quizmaster, and got us to swap our answers with the next team to save him the effort of marking them) seemed to turn a blind eye to our perpetually increasing team size. Had we won, I’m sure there would have been uproarious accusations of cheating from the other teams. It is a strange feeling to enter a quiz, yet be preoccupied by a nagging worry about actually winning the damn thing. How could the number of people sitting around our table not go unnoticed? Of course we could try to argue that our additional friends were not part of the quiz (officially they arrived too late to have paid any entry fees – though this argument could well be another source of further chagrin), but if you were in a quiz and knew the answer to a question, it would take the same level of restraint as eating a doughnut without licking your lips not to shout out the answer to the nearest team. Consequently, I ended up assessing my friends in relation to their ‘points value’, just in case we happened to win.
I cannot help but resent the obligation to feel any form of guilt during my own leisure time. In an ideal world, I would really like to satirize this ‘points reduction’ rule. I wish to convince everybody in the pub to join together as one solitary team. We may not share much of a prize through our amalgamation, but it’d be a coup to win a quiz with a score of minus 115.
In fairness, this didn’t become an issue and the curmudgeonly landlord (who read the questions out himself to save money on a quizmaster, and got us to swap our answers with the next team to save him the effort of marking them) seemed to turn a blind eye to our perpetually increasing team size. Had we won, I’m sure there would have been uproarious accusations of cheating from the other teams. It is a strange feeling to enter a quiz, yet be preoccupied by a nagging worry about actually winning the damn thing. How could the number of people sitting around our table not go unnoticed? Of course we could try to argue that our additional friends were not part of the quiz (officially they arrived too late to have paid any entry fees – though this argument could well be another source of further chagrin), but if you were in a quiz and knew the answer to a question, it would take the same level of restraint as eating a doughnut without licking your lips not to shout out the answer to the nearest team. Consequently, I ended up assessing my friends in relation to their ‘points value’, just in case we happened to win.
I cannot help but resent the obligation to feel any form of guilt during my own leisure time. In an ideal world, I would really like to satirize this ‘points reduction’ rule. I wish to convince everybody in the pub to join together as one solitary team. We may not share much of a prize through our amalgamation, but it’d be a coup to win a quiz with a score of minus 115.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)