Friday, 21 October 2011

The day is shot, busted, irretrievable

Dig has left for South America. No, he did not depart in haste with a suitcase full of cash and an armful of blond.

Not that I saw, anyhow. Apparently it is work. Even if the work instructions seem to include 'bring swimming costume'. He says this is how business is conducted from Brazil. Much better than Russia, where you get a minder and two days of hassle over your visa, or these days, India, where now you get an overnight flight in lieu of a hotel room.

Well, the problems of international business travel for middle-aged men is not really what this post is about.

It is about what happens to the woman left behind to face the kids.

I am doing my duty. I am serving as an emotional punch bag for Shark, Squirrel, and Tiger. Abuse of parents by kids is something we never seem to hear about, is it?

Anyway, I have not raised my voice once in this experience, although keeping my mouth shut while on the receiving end of an emotional roller-coaster wreckage of pre-teen triplet girls whose daddy has left them is akin to driving through all circles of hell singing The Sun Has Got His Hat On.

Under these circumstances I am permitted a glass of whiskey at noon.

This delightful brown fluid is focusing my mind on vengeful matters. I have decided. Kids, when I am aged 92 and have less control over my bladder than I do now, I'm coming round to your slick apartment and I'm peeing on your velveteen sofa. And that's just for starters.

Meanwhile, here's a calming picture of something that both reminds me who I am and calms me down. Granite.

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