Maternal (Lack of) Instinct.

Well I suppose we can conclude that I'm not exactly the maternal type.



"Your hair is funny," The Child told me as we sat watching Jonny Depp on the telly. I was only half-interested because, as mentioned, we were watching Jonny Depp. And I like Jonny Depp very, very, much. Jonny, Jonny, Jonny... Mmmmm. I vaguely asked her, "Funny how?" but I won't lie. I wasn't even uninterested- I was actively disinterested. Like, the way Mama is disinterested in historical fiction. She once got so fed up with Papa reading Wilbur Smith novels that when they finally took a holiday where his nose wasn't buried in a spine for ten days she beamed as she told me on their return, "And do you know what? HE NEVER TURNED A PAGE." I'm talking disinterested in the way that Britney Spears appears to be with personal hygiene (I wouldn't take her up on the offer of a swig from her Diet Coke- would you?) or disinterested in the same sense as Iran is with sharing it's oil wells.





"It is golden and black stripes. Hair isn't supposed to be stripy." The little shit giggled as her sister snorted with laughter. I suddenly paid attention. I was hurt. "This cost me quite a lot of money, you know" I explained and I was given a look. That ten-year-old equivalent of WHATEVER, LOSER that surprisingly wasn't coupled with a finger click and a neck snap. In another ten years some poor boy will finally pluck up the courage after an evening of wistful gazes and sweaty palms to go and talk to this girl, and with this very same look his balls will shoot up into his abdomen and it'll take six years of therapy and one undiscovered maiming of a small animal for him to finally look his own reflection in the eye again. I scurried away to the kitchen with quite some shame on the basis of that look. It was the sort of shame that comes with being outwitted by somebody I could, if tested, quite easily beat up in a fight. I'd win. I'm pretty sure that goes against the rules though.



When I think about it, the last interaction I had with a child was at a family party was when I accidentally drop-kicked Verbose Auntie's grandson across the whole of the kitchen floor with the heel of my Jigsaw wedges. I was on my way to the fridge for a top-up of Macon Village. HE BOUNCED! HE WAS FINE! And then as soon as the buggar heard the fuss everyone else was making he cried- loudly. My advice to you would be to refrain from drop-kicking babies across floors at family functions. It doesn't go down awfully well.



I returned from the kitchen with food and held my breath for more insults.



"I really like Jonny Depp," the little one told me. "I would like to be an actress one day so that I can act with him. And then maybe marry him too." I replied that he is practically married already, and has kids that are her age and that Jonny Depp probably wouldn't seek out amore this close to Skegness. She looked like she might cry and it made me smile inside.



"I want to be a judge," said the other one. "Like in a courtroom?" I asked and she gave me the look and said, "No- on X-Factor," and I think she spat at my shoe too but I was too busy wondering exactly which parenting style their mother follows because my personal favourite would probably be one BASED IN REALITY, and for these kids that sure wasn't it.



"You know Cheryl's hair is a wig don't you?" I said, and I swear to God neither would speak to me after that.



P.S. I've been given an award!