<body><script type="text/javascript"> function setAttributeOnload(object, attribute, val) { if(window.addEventListener) { window.addEventListener('load', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }, false); } else { window.attachEvent('onload', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }); } } </script> <div id="navbar-iframe-container"></div> <script type="text/javascript" src="https://apis.google.com/js/platform.js"></script> <script type="text/javascript"> gapi.load("gapi.iframes:gapi.iframes.style.bubble", function() { if (gapi.iframes && gapi.iframes.getContext) { gapi.iframes.getContext().openChild({ url: 'https://www.blogger.com/navbar.g?targetBlogID\x3d3200994\x26blogName\x3dDreadful+Nonsense\x26publishMode\x3dPUBLISH_MODE_BLOGSPOT\x26navbarType\x3dBLACK\x26layoutType\x3dCLASSIC\x26searchRoot\x3dhttps://shazzle.blogspot.com/search\x26blogLocale\x3den_GB\x26v\x3d2\x26homepageUrl\x3dhttp://shazzle.blogspot.com/\x26vt\x3d7615377689624956874', where: document.getElementById("navbar-iframe-container"), id: "navbar-iframe" }); } }); </script>

Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

This morning/afternoon (depending on your perspective - it was morning for me, because I'd just woken up from 8 hours sleep. The fact that the sleeping began at 4am does not affect the fact that, just after I wake up, it is morning. To my parents, who had been up for a good three hours already, it was already the afternoon) found me coming to the realisation that, maybe, after over a year of living at home, it might well be an idea to start considering perhaps, I don't know, just a thought, but since I'm the age that I am I should maybe, you know, it's really only a thought, but perhaps... I should probably move out.

See, what happened is this: I'm sitting in the dining room having my breakfast. I'm reading The Guardian, because I like to think I'm a leftie intellectual but actually I only really buy it for Dave Eggers and Jon Ronson. I'm feeling slightly disappointed by the short short story this week, because it's a bit rubbish. (Little Sister Edel later declared it the Worst Thing Ever To Be Printed Ever but I don't think it was that bad. Could have done with some trimming. Eggers' definition of "short" is getting worryingly longer every week.) I'm reflecting on the fact that I've got tons of things to do today, and can't be bothered considering even starting to think about doing any of them. And then the yelling starts in the kitchen.

My Dad is standing by the counter. He's annoyed because it's raining outside, and that means he can't go play with his friends. Mum's bugging him to start plastering some holes in the wall that were left by the last visit of the electrician and he decides instead to deflect her attention away from him and on to me. He's pointing at things on the counter and yelling that I never clear up after myself.

Ladies, gents, let me make this one thing clear: I'm a neat freak. I'm tidy. I'm a clean and tidy neat freak. Clearing things up is something I do when I'm sad or annoyed or angry or bored. It calms me down. I'll even go so far as to say I enjoy it. Stop staring, accept this point, and learn to see it as another reason why you love me so much. Thanks.

So when I'm accused of a crime I didn't commit - much as The A-Team once were - I go off the deep end like a latter day Mr T, but without the jewelry or accent, and even these days lacking the fear of flying. I start swearing like a trooper, stating the various facts as I see them. For one, I point out that I tidy up after him every morning when he goes to work and leaves his breakfast dishes all over the place. Secondly, I tidy the kitchen almost every day, because that's what I do while waiting for my coffee to brew and I throw in some swear words for good measure. Thirdly, there is nothing on the counter that was involved in the preparation of my breakfast and some more swear words. Fourthly, more swear words for good measure and Fifthly...

Through my diatribe, I'm stepping outside myself thinking, this is a stupid argument. Who actually cares? Neither of us do. But then Mum joins in.

Swearing is a family sport round our's, and we're all very good at it. We all have a great fondness for the f-word in particular, and the only thing really out of bounds is the c-word, although I still use that quite a lot, just not in front of my mother, who hates it more than she hates people who drive slowly (and by Lord, she hates those people).

At this stage, the initial point of the argument is lost completely under the barrage of swearing that has resulted. And the thing is, we're all kind of finding it entertaining. We stop the swearing, forget what we were saying, I start tidying up the kitchen and Mum and Dad go off to make some plaster for the walls. But really, I think I should probably start considering thinking about wondering if it would be possible to maybe find, oh I don't know, somewhere else to live. I'm not going to use the word disfunctional here, but this can't possibly be healthy. Can it?

This entry was posted on 20 November 2004 at 5:16 pm. 0 comments

0 Comments:

Post a Comment