What a difference a day makes – from crispy rashers to pittas and porridge
SUNDAY MORNING. I sip my freshly ground coffee and survey my land. I rustle the property section in my hand and note that houses on our old street are down a third in value since we sold last year. Through pure fluke we got out just in time.
Outside a child whips by on her bike, squealing. Her younger sister chases her, attempting to knock her off her perch. I’m nearly 100 per cent sure she means her elder sibling no real physical harm. Nearly.
The sun beats down. Early October and it’s T-shirt weather. The missus tops up my cup and drops a plate in front of me. Crispy rashers, cold butter, brown sauce, white bread.
I have an odd sensation in my gut. It doesn’t feel ill, but a strange vibration emanates out. It works its way up, through my body, this shuddery, juddering echo. Finally ending on my face. Causing me to smile. I’m not sure, but I could be happy.
The dog sprints the length of the garden alongside her new best friend, a wizen old mongrel called Brownie. As they run, they seem to be kissing. I remind myself to get her snipped. You can have too much fun.
The boughs of the apple tree outside the living room window are sagging with fruit. Maybe we’ll make jam. Or maybe we’ll throw apples at the birds. There’s a tree stump the same size and shape as a cricket wicket at the far end of the lawn. I’ve been trying to hit it since last year. Today could be the day. I have enough apples to practise for a long time.
Monday morning.
I stand over the elder at the kitchen table, glaring at her. “You won’t eat Cheerios, porridge or Corn Flakes. You ‘hate’ brown bread toasted, as well as anything with jam or marmalade or butter on it. You won’t drink smoothies or milk or water. The only thing you want is pitta bread and pineapple slices. I think you are being unreasonable and you are beginning to try my patience. Finish the food in front of you. Now.”
She glares right back. She glares good. “You can’t tell me what to do. I hate this stuff.” With that she pushes her bowl away.
Her sister looks up at me. “Look daddy, I’m eating all my porridge. Amn’t I really good at eating my breakfast?” Hooded glance in the direction of the non-breakfast eater across table.
Sister explodes. “Oh. My. God. You’re such a . . . slimeball. I can’t believe you. And dad, I know you like her more than me, she’s all great at everything, blah, blah, blah.”
This time she decides to increase her flounce by standing up and storming from the kitchen. She catches her hip on the corner of the table, tipping it. The remnants of the younger’s porridge empty onto her lap. I think that’s the only clean school skirt we have left. I must remedy the situation before the missus comes in.
The younger starts to bawl. The elder screams: “There’s no need to cry! It was an accident for God’s sake!” She is intent on bringing the divine into the morning. The missus arrives.
At the elder: “Stop shouting. Who do you think you are speaking to anybody like that?”
At the younger: “Stop screaming. How the hell did you manage to get your breakfast all over yourself?”
At me: “What did you say to them that has them so upset?”
For 10 seconds everybody lets rip at the same time. We break. I bolt for the bathroom, the elder for the living room, the younger for the playroom.
The missus stands in the middle of the kitchen looking pained, straight out of the shower, towel piled on top of her head, dripping and calling for us all to come back.
I return first and accuse her of undermining my authority. I ooze self-righteousness. She denies my accusation. I then suggest the kids are impossible brats, made satanic on school mornings, further provoked by her barrelling in unannounced and presuming she has any idea what has gone on before.
The elder arrives back and tells us to stop fighting. The younger rushes in from the blindside and catches her sister with a slick kick to the ankle. We separate them and start to brush hair, holding flailing feet apart as we attempt to get shoes on.
“I hate you!” says one. “I hate you more!” says the other.
We rush out the door, late for school.