Any archaic parent will do. Anarchy ok, dad, my home has become a hissing spitting Johnny Rotten performance and I can’t do the pogo dance thing anymore. Her big brown Rianna limpid pool eyes look out at me from under ridiculously long lashes, as I become my father and ask the right questions about her school report. Dazed and confused I watch her pools glaze over and I’ve lost her. I resist the urge to act out my own bit part in today’s episode of Shameless. I’ve never tried ecstasy and wonder could I buzz myself through the next years. I look up; the captain has turned on the seat-belt light, turbulence up ahead.
They line up on the alter like that scene from The Usual Suspects. I hear the names read out as the graduation scrolls are presented. I locate his deadliest enemies and annihilate them on this holy alter. Woycheck stands to his left, the child with anger issues, and I scream to the congregation that my child has anger issues too; he got them from his mother. But it’s too late now; my son’s reaction to Woycheck’s issues is enshrined in the Red Book, forever. The smiling assassin Owen is to his right, you’d never tell they were part of yesterday’s happy orienteering group before he snapped and threw himself at our kid. Owen’s smile is crooked because of a split lip, retaliation for our boy’s shiner. I heard later that we’d won when Owen cried after he called him a crack-up.
Natasha makes the best hot chocolate. It’s patently obvious that the world can be nourished by a cup of hot chocolate and not by the meat, potatoes and two veg which I prepare daily for Omar Sharif. Natasha’s hot chocolate uses two Cadbury melted squares, two marshmallows and whipped cream.
You know what happens the whipped cream Dad?
Does it congeal like the gravy on your uneaten dinner son?
Guilty of his idyllic childhood, it’s now our fault that he won’t let it go and stays in this euphoric limbo twixt bliss and freedom. It’s funny to watch the fake tears, he’s too tall. His dinners though are never funny, corralling pees and dissecting a chicken breast like a curious Michelangelo.
It’s the end of the school year. I’m exhausted, so is she, the sex-pistols are not.