Grumpy and I have often marvelled at the sweet life the kids next door lead. Old Moon Face and Dr Bellows have got it pretty damn good. Sleeping in, staying up late, splashing in the pool all day, rockin' out to Peter Gabriel with their stupid parents all damn night. Despite all this indulgence, they're sweet kids.
I am sorry to say that yesterday this long, cruisey run came to a sad end. I don't know whether it was the sudden onslaught of the summer heat, the fly-ridden humidity, or the frying of brain cells from willful over-exposure to the self-indulgent musings of a man who would like us all to forget he was once in Genesis, but their mother finally lost it and had the miserable blighters out in the yard helping her weed and dig and generally sweat it out in the sun. Tote that bale, whippersnappers! Poor old Moon Face looked particularly miserable, despite the jaunty rasta cap she was sporting.
One thing that comforts me: I know Mama Stupid had to go back to work today so the kids are probably curled up in the lap of luxury with their grandparents. As I type and, indeed, as you read I have no doubt that Moon Face and Dr Bellows are enjoying yet another spoon-fed heapin' helping of the finest Peters ice cream. With topping.
Take a load off, kids.
3 comments:
This morning I was reading one of those silly trivia books my husband got as a Christmas gift, and it said Australians eat the most ice cream per capita of anyone in the world.
I knew I'd find a use for that fact somewhere. (I didn't say it would be an intelligent use, mind you.)
Beer and icecream; no wonder we have an obesity epidemic.
I know, I know; all those beer spiders. It's a disgrace.
Post a Comment