Friday, December 23, 2005
The art of baby-sitting
I once had the pleasure of spending the festive season with the owner of the circus and his family. We weren’t performing that Christmas, so he invited me over to his mansion in Hampshire. Mr McDougall was a hearty Scotsman with a youngish Canadian wife, with whom he had sired fraternal twins of the opposite sex, then aged 11. The two were being educated in Scotland, but had returned home for the holidays – Fiona and Fraser were their names. I must say I was impressed by the manners of the children when their parents were about. It was all: “Father this” and “Mother that” and “may I be excused from the table”. The rude awakening came when Mum and Dad went out to a party and I was left to baby-sit.After their parents had gone, I tried to establish a constructive rapport with the twins by asking them if they knew any Christmas songs.
“I’ll give you a good one GB,” replied Fraser with a cheeky grin:
Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin flew way,
His Uncle Billy lost his willy in the USA
I have to admit letting out a loud guffaw at that one, which was probably not the wisest reaction in retrospect. Feeling somewhat abashed, I followed with an admonition:
“Tut, tut, Fraser,” I said. “Santa Claus doesn’t leave presents for children who compose bawdy lyrics for one of his favourite tunes.”
“Santa!” exclaimed Fraser. “Yer dunnae think we believe that shite d’yer! We’re not five years old, GB!”
“We know where our presents are hidden, GB,” added Fiona. “It’s the same place every year.”
“Let’s go and check them!” piped Fraser.
And before I could say a word, I was chasing the twins upstairs to their parents’ bedroom. When I got there I saw them pull their Christmas presents, not yet gift-wrapped, from the depths of a large wardrobe.
“Oh no!” cried Fraser. “A bloody train set!”
“Poor Fraser didn’t get the Teddy Bear he wanted to shag!” sneered Fiona.
“Aye, but I see you got the dildo you wanted!” retorted Fraser, looking at his sister’s present, which appeared to be a pogo stick.
I felt that a dose of firm discipline was in order: “Hey, that’s enough dirty talk if you please!” I cried. “Put those presents back where you found them! This is not the Christmas Spirit!”
But the children were ahead of me. The gifts were already back in the wardrobe and they were now rummaging through some draws in a chest beside the bed. They soon found what they were looking for and started sniggering. I saw Fiona reading the instructions on various bottles and packages, while Fraser squeezed some white stuff out of a tube and rubbed it between his fingers.
“What are you doing now?” I demanded. “I don’t think your parents would take kindly to you wasting their toothpaste, Fraser!”
The twins collapsed in giggles at my suggestion. “It’s not toothpaste, GB!” screamed Fiona.
“It’s what Dad rubs on his dick when he’s doing it to Mother,” added Fraser helpfully, with an enormous smirk on his face.
“No he doesn’t!” corrected Fiona. “Mother puts it on her diaphragm. Read the instructions, stupid!”
Whatever the truth of the matter, I felt that enough was enough and the time had come to crack the whip in no uncertain terms. I strode up to the pair of them, grabbed one under each arm, and made for the door to escort them downstairs. They did not accept their fate stoically, making protests such as: “let me go, yer big hairy bugger!”, “this isn’t the jungle, gorilla-boy!” and “ye’ll be arrested cuz we’re too young to have sex with an ape!”. But I wasn’t going to be put off by their empty rhetoric.
“You will not distract me from my duty by making idle threats!” I snorted. “The common law of England recognises that my actions are entirely legal in loco parentis, so SHUT UP, you contemptible midgets!”
I let them go when we arrived in the lounge and the twins dusted themselves off. They muttered a little and gave me a few dirty looks, but I could see that my firm action had gained their respect. They would think twice before challenging my authority again. As luck would have it, the network premier of Every Which Way But Loose was on TV, so we sat down together to watch the inspiring story of Clint Eastwood and an orang-utan named Clyde. The children asked me a few questions about the ape, which I answered as best as I could, and we were soon on friendly terms again. During the break for News at Ten, I slipped upstairs to make sure everything was in order in their parents’ bedroom. When I came down, I made some popcorn in the kitchen and distributed it to the twins like a kindly uncle. That put them in such a good mood that they went to bed without protest after the movie had ended. I myself stretched out on the sofa and dozed off.
Next morning, after breakfast, the master of the house asked me to see him in his study. As I sat down at his desk, he removed an item from his drawer.
“I found this tube of spermicide under one of the settees,” he said. “Do you know how it got there, GB?”
I realised what had happened. That scamp Fraser must have put it in his pocket when I collared him in the bedroom and left it in the lounge. I considered telling all, but quickly rejected the idea. A gorilla does not inform on children. I decided that the best course of action was to show contrition and say little.
“I’m truly sorry, Mr McDougall,” I said, bowing my head.
“GB, I can understand your curiosity about human sexuality,” replied Mr McDougall. “It occurs to me that we may have neglected this aspect of your education because you’re a gorilla, which isn’t right. What I am going to do is ask my children to lend you a book we gave them on their last birthday called Roger and Sarah make Love and Babies.”
“Thank you, Mr McDougall,” I replied.
So he called his children to the study to find out who had the book, and Fiona returned with it a few minutes later, smiling like the Mona Lisa. It was immensely galling to have her give it to me under the watchful eye of her father, and I am irked to recall that the little madam gave me a cheeky wink as she passed it into my hand. I soon set matters straight, however, by meeting with the children a little later in their playroom and telling them what had transpired. I expected them to show enormous gratitude and was not disappointed.
“We’da bin up the burn without a paddle if you’d told him it was us, GB,” said Fraser reflectively.
“What d’yer mean US?” exclaimed Fiona. “It was you who left it in the lounge, yer muppet!”
“You have conveniently forgotten, young lady, that you were complicit in the ransacking of your parents’ bedroom,” I said sternly. “Just be thankful that everything has ended well.”
The rest of the Christmas vacation passed pleasantly and without untoward incident. The twins and I became good friends and have remained so to this day. They are grown-up now, and among the finest of Her Majesty’s loyal subjects. Fiona is an up-and-coming television producer and Fraser is a highly-paid investment banker. Every year they send me an enormous hamper of Thorntons’ chocolates, and I am pleased to report that this year’s gift arrived yesterday. Yummy!
Comments:
<< Home
Ha! Funny story GB, but my kids would never go through our drawers looking for contraceptives. Most children find the thought of their parents having sex disgusting. Scottish kids might behave differently because they're a different race.
A bore writes,
I don't believe a word of it, Silver Back.
No self-respecting Canadian woman would suffer to name her children Fiona and Fraser!
If the children did have any Canadian genes they would have given you an 'in vivo' demonstration of 'hide the weenie'.
You would have found it relatively boring, though!
I don't believe a word of it, Silver Back.
No self-respecting Canadian woman would suffer to name her children Fiona and Fraser!
If the children did have any Canadian genes they would have given you an 'in vivo' demonstration of 'hide the weenie'.
You would have found it relatively boring, though!
# posted by 
: Friday, December 23, 2005
: Friday, December 23, 2005
She sounds like a trophy wife so I doubt she had much self-respect. The key point in this tale, GB, is when you said to the twins:
The common law of England recognises that my actions are entirely legal in loco parentis .
There is nothing like a bit of Latin to make children shut up.
The common law of England recognises that my actions are entirely legal in loco parentis .
There is nothing like a bit of Latin to make children shut up.
Scotch kids would swop over the lubricant and toothpaste ensuring both tooth and fanny misery for their parents...or maybe not!
Well, in my little family, when my children are so open as to make comments such as ~ "gosh mom, I could hear you last night, don't you think you and dad should be quieter?" ~ My husband and I merrily chuckle, glance at one another, and, just to gross them out further, touch tongues.....then my husband usually comes up with some snide comment such as ~ "well, how the hell do you think YOU got here?" ~ after which, they are further disgusted....
Truly lovely...
Truly lovely...
ANd MErry Christmas to you, my dear GB!!!
And to you Tarzan, since you have no blog to properly leave the well-wishes at.
And to Desargues as well, who is also rather lax in the *actual real live blog* area.
And to you Tarzan, since you have no blog to properly leave the well-wishes at.
And to Desargues as well, who is also rather lax in the *actual real live blog* area.
There are factual elements to this story, you know. I hope you don't think I just make everything up.
I've got one more post saved up for Christmas morning and then I'm taking a few days off to eat bananas.
Post a Comment
I've got one more post saved up for Christmas morning and then I'm taking a few days off to eat bananas.
<< Home
