Doing this, to be exact:
Every waking minute outside of work (and playing the Xbox), I’ve been tearing the house apart. All so that some day soon, we have one of these downstairs:
I had to put my hand into some poo to connect up a pipe the other day. I meant to take a photo of it, but Linzi wouldn’t let me hold the camera while I had shit on my hands.
Once the toilet’s done, I have to put in a new kitchen. The fun never stops. Ara sure, it’ll all be worth it once it’s done, everyone keeps saying. They never offer to help though, the bastards.
You get training for everything these days. Just a week in the job, and I’d already been trained in Fraud Awareness, Complaints Handling, Data Protection, and Enormous Lad Management. Not everyone gets ELM, but they said it was obligatory for me, because of the incredible size, weight and glistening shininess of my mickey.
Shut it, the rash is clearing up. Those antibiotics are doing the trick nicely.
You get certificates for them all. Certificates are important. Certificates imply that you really are making progress, you’re moving up in the world. You can display them at your desk, just like everyone else. I don’t.
Certificates convey responsibility. Authorised tea-maker. “Successfully passed…” on a certificate translates to “A wide experience of…” on your CV. CV means spicy resumé.
And there you are. You’re an individual. You’re WINNER! Just like everyone else.
You know what you don’t need training or a certificate for? Being a parent. Parents should be certified. CAPABLE. Nothing fascist, now. Everyone’s entitled to breed, yeah. Not everyone remembers that breeding produces kids though. The certificate would state that you are fully aware that you are responsible for your child’s welfare, and you’ll get your fucking bollocks, or perhaps ovaries, sliced out if you try to pass the buck.
See, if I’d had some parent training, I’d’ve been more prepared the other day when Jack shoved his hand into a warm, freshly-brewed poo. His own, I might add.
Parent training would teach you how to react in those situations. If I’d had my training, I bet I’d have reacted with something besides shrieks of horror as I watched him flailing his arms about, poo slathering his hair and the changing mat and the floor and a book that ended up so covered in faeces that I had no choice but to give it to charity.
Have you ever been painting, and a bit somehow gets on the sole of your shoe, and before you know it, you’ve accidentally planted paintprints halfway around the house? That’s what this was like. Except with poo.
There it was, the pooey arm, slippery and wriggling in my hands, like a puppy being held underwater, as I manhandled Jack into the bath and hosed him down. He wasn’t happy. I was fucking traumatised, trying to make myself have one of those out of body experiences that hippies and Tom Cruise are always yammering on about. Now I understand what my dad must’ve been going through that time when I was a baby and my mother came home to find him holding me upside-down at the sink, hosing down my hole with the powerful jet of the cold-water tap.
Dad, I forgive you.
Please note: If you haven’t got the new Queens of the Stone Age album, stand over in the corner and be ashamed. Go on now, git, pardner, or I’ll set The Swearing Lady on you.
No, not that corner. The one with the poo in it. I can’t bring myself to clean it up.
By the way, thanks for giving this place a pulse when all I wanted to do was rip its heart out. Sincerely. Although I haven’t been able to be on as much as I’d like, I have been reading every one of your comments, and I really appreciate that you take the time to leave them. So there.
Hint 1: Never use those plastic things that hang on the side of the bowl to make your toilet smell nice. If you do, your wife will one day unwittingly flush it down the drain, causing a horrendous blockage.
Hint 2: Change your bathroom light bulbs when they need to be changed. Otherwise, you’ll have to change the bulb while dancing on tiptoes, whimpering and clenching your arse cheeks together as you try to hold back a monster load.
Hint 3: Always remember to unblock the toilet after your wife has clogged it with one of those plastic things that hang on the side of the bowl. Otherwise, you’ll have to unblock the toilet while dancing on tiptoes, whimpering and clenching your arse cheeks together as you try to hold back a monster load.
I’m deadly serious. That’s the closest I’ve come to touching cloth for a long time.