It’s my father’s fault, of course it is. A wannabe engineer all his life, I ended up doing French sevens and curly nines instead of Skelextric or mala like other kids. And the praise thing was huge so my nines became curlier and my oh lá lá sevens more continental. We were all happy with my numerical progress and the Skelextric stayed next door. Complicated Christmas presents followed, a majestic Cutty Sark in full sail, 1000 tiny airfix pieces, all for happiness personified seven year old me ( even when it wouldn’t float in the bath). And then there were the towering Apollo XII models, and I still smiled when not allowed to bring them outside to show the lads. Eventually I called a halt when miraculously, I cobbled together a much interrupted Engineering diploma and the backlash has been happening since.
So ye see, it’s the oul fella’s fault that I can’t participate in this blogging Olympics of indignation, that I don’t have the words or the indignation. That I can’t contribute constructively in the raging debates across tinterweb, can’t wax lyrically or bloggingly, cause I was doing curly nines when ye were doing finger painting. So now at forty eight, I’m doing play dough blogging and my kids can do what they fucking want, anytime they fucking want to, cause every day I stutter and stumble across tinterweb, I’m reminded of curly nines and oh lá lá sevens.