Storm in a Shopping Trolley

Just yesterday I was dispensing my best Calm The Fuck Down advice to a friend, and today TomTom and I have a big fat fight!

He went shopping, wheeled the trolley home (knows he’s not meant to) down a steep footpath under the big fig tree and tipped the trolley. ’30 eggs broken and the bread squashed flat,’ he yells!

Came in in a rage. ‘No-one helps me!

Hey Tom, its OK boy.

Gaan’d aan and aaan. ‘No-one even came to help me.’

Well, did you ask us, fella? Did you phone? He didn’t. We should have arrived like knowing fairies.

Rage – so eventually I snapped OK ENOUGH NOW, You cocked up, you didn’t ask for help, it is what it is!

Rage

SHUT UP NOW! FFS!

Storms out of the yard.

About an hour later he’s back.

Sorry Daddy! I apologise!

Me too, fella, I’m sorry. Things happen. We OK?

We’re OK. I just lost it when I saw the damage.

That’s OK. That’s understandable.

Done.

~~~oo0oo~~~

~~~oo0oo~~~

Hair Today

At last I get Jessie (kickin n screamin) to the hairdresser.
Her hair looks like she combed it with a firecracker (I should have taken a picture). She’s been washing it daily and tying it up in a bun. She’s not combing it all out daily.

I drop her off with Tom and buzz to work. They’ll walk back home via the shops.
“Just get a trim, don’t have it ‘straightened’ as you’ll be swimming all week – it’s not worth it” are my instructions.

So I get a whatsapp pic:

Jess Hair
And then a hurried phone call:
“Don’t worry Dad, I paid for Jess to have her hair straightened with my own pocket money” says her loving younger brother! Talking fast, pre-empting a bollocksing. “My own pocket money” means “an advance which I have yet to ask you for”.
Knows how to arse-creep, that one.

I had also given them the grocery money (Cecelia is away), which is now diminished thanks to the extra hair spend.

“Dad, I bought you a rump steak and choc mint Ola ice cream”. Both his favourites.
No veggies.