Head Rambles

Grandad February 6th, 2009

It was our wedding anniversary last week.

For those of you who are not married, wedding anniversaries area time to dread.  They are a minefield more deadly than any in Africa or Bosnia.  One wrong step, and the poor husband can expect months of misery ahead.

Of course the biggest mine that any bloke can step on is to forget the damn thing altogether.

I did remember a couple of weeks ago, and made a mental note to Do The Right Thing.  The Right Thing is to buy something ludicrously expensive and to make a big fuss of Herself on the day.  Usually what I do is to find something at the bottom of her jewellery box and polish it up.  If there is nothing there, I usually nip down to the Pound Shop or Oxfam.

Of course, making mental notes at my age is fatal.

I forgot.

The day dawned and I remembered.

There was that horrible sinking feeling – that sword of Damocles hanging over my head – when would she remember?  I tried some damage limitation by rifling through her jewellery, but she had been to the pawn shop again, and the cupboard was bare.  Bollox.

It was a long day, as any minute I was expecting the explosion.

But it never happened.

I realised that Herself had forgotten too, so I relaxed and enjoyed the evening in peace.

As the days subsequently passed, I knew I was completely in the clear.  She couldn’t accuse me of anything, as she was just as guilty.

I mentioned it the other night.

‘We forgot our anniversary,’ I said breezily.  [Note the use of the plural]

‘Did we?  When was it?’

‘Last week.’

‘Oh!  I forgot about it.  How long are we married?’

I whipped out a pencil and did some calculations.  ‘Thirty four years,’ I said.

’Is it that long?’

‘No,’ says I.  ‘Much longer.’

She gave me one of her looks.

‘Who needs anniversaries anyway?’ she said.  ‘Don’t I know that you love me without any fancy gifts or anything?’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes. Sure, aren’t you letting me sleep indoors while the snow lasts?’

‘True.’

• Around the house , Rambles , The Family
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Grandad December 20th, 2008

I’m babysitting at the moment.

I’m over in our K8’s house as she has some business to attend to.

I did an inventory, just in case I should lose anyone or any thing accidentally.

One budgie – Check.

One cat – Check.

One kitten – Check.

Two guinea pigs – Check.

One dog – Check.

One granddaughter – Check.

One grandson – Check.

One TAT – Check.

Hold on a minute…..   A TAT?  What the fuck am I doing babysitting The Accidental Terrorist?  Isn’t he old enough to look after himself?

No.  I suppose not.

Everyone and every thing is asleep now, including TAT.  Except for the kitten.  The damned kitten is trying to climb into my beard.  And when she isn’t doing that, she’s digging her claws into my leg, and having a swing.  It is painful.

Who’d be a Grandad?

*sigh*

• The Family
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Grandad November 15th, 2008

Guinea pigs are strange animals.

They have this inscrutable expression all the time, like Japanese, so you never know whether they are happy or not.

I have learned quite a bit about them since MinniePig came into our lives. 

For a start, our Minnie’s favourite items are Romaine lettuce and the Irish Times.  She is very fussy about her reading matter and it’s a race to get the Irish Times read before she has eaten it.

Having devoured Roisín Ingle, she will happily sit there producing loads of poo.

Guinea pig poo is strange stuff.  It always seems to be fairly dry and hard, and it is always exactly the same size.  The size looked vaguely familiar, so I measured it. 

I was right.

Minnie produces .177 calibre shit every time.

I have an old air rifle that I am very fond of.  It was my first gun, and I got it for my fifth birthday.  I still remember the joy of my first kill.

I haven’t used the rifle much lately, but I dug it out of the attic and tried out Minnie’s poo for size.  It was perfect.

Last week, I brought it out to do some hunting.  I had forgotten how good an air rifle can be as there is no sound to scare any other tourists in the area.  I racked up a good score.

I would be very interested to see the pathologists report.

“Cause of death unknown, but guinea pig excrement was found in the heart”

I think Minnie and I have a long and fruitful symbiotic career ahead of us.

• The Family , Tourists
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Grandad October 27th, 2008

A month ago, I wrote about the wild guinea pig in the garden.

Life has moved on a bit since then.

He was captured, and became a she.  This was not one of your operations that we don’t discuss publicly; it was more a case of discovery.

The problem then arose as to what we were to call this little turd on legs.  The honour fell on Sixty who suggested ‘Minnie Pig’.  This was rather appropriate, as Puppychild calls them mini-pigs as a generic term.

The general idea was that Minnie was to go and live with our K8’s pair [of guinea pigs – no smart comments, please].  This however didn’t work out.  The vet says that K8’s pair should eventually make a reasonable physical recovery, but he can’t answer for the aftermath of the trauma.  So Minnie is now living with us.

Apparently guinea pigs are social animals and like company.  We had notions of getting a companion, but I just couldn’t bother my arse driving around looking for a petshop.  She’s only a fucking animal after all.  So she now lives in splendid isolation in our kitchen, so that she is nice and handy should we run out of meat.

Things have developed since then, however.

We got into the habit of letting her out for a couple of hours for a bit of a run around.  This would be fine, but Minnie seems to have taken a bit of an aversion to Herself.  There is no violence involved, but frequently my evening nap is interrupted by a shriek of “Jesus! The little fucker has pissed on me again”.  Minnie is quite subtle about displaying her feelings apparently.

What about Sandy, you ask. 

Here is where the new development comes in.

There was a bit of curiosity when the two first met, and I had the tranquiliser gun at the ready.  I didn’t need it however as Minnie came to a decision.  Having already gone through a gender reassignment, she went through a species reassignment.  She has now decided she is a Minnie Puppy.  She has adopted Sandy as her mother.  Fortunately, Sandy has adopted Minnie as her long lost daughter, so the two now spend the evenings in mutual admiration.

There is a ritual now.  Sandy will curl up on the couch, and Minnie will run over.  Sandy then proceeds to wash Minnie, until she is wringing wet and all her hair is standing on end and glistening with slobber.  Minnie then runs over for a quick piss on Herself and then returns for another wash.  A very cosy scene.

I’m very fond of Sandy, so all this has disrupted our gastronomic plans.

I could never eat Sandy’s daughter.

Not yet, anyway.

• The Family
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Grandad August 10th, 2008

Every now and then I read something on the Interweb that makes me stop and think.

I found such a piece last night and I had to read a couple of times, as it is one of the happiest, most moving pieces of writing I have read in a long time.

For those of you who are not familiar with the background, Laughingboy is my grandson.  He is seven years old, and has cerebral palsy.  He has poor motor control, and no speech. He talks with his eyes and he laughs a lot.  He is the most beautiful, loving child you could ever meet.

Our K8 is a loving and devoted mother, and never once has she complained.  When I read what she had written, my heart sang for her.

This is the piece she wrote.

I don’t know about you, but I am going to head off now and give it a vote for the Irish Blog Awards Blog Post of the Month.

• The Family
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