Jeez, hormonal teenage boys- can't live with 'em, sure could live without 'em (though i'm sure a more boring, if peaceful, life would be lead in this case). Whoever came up with the theory that men are the uncomplicated sex has obviously never come across the kirk menfolk. At the drop of a hat, or the mention of cheese as I have discovered at my peril, the pleasant young charmer sitting before me can transform, hulk like, into a testosterone fuelled adolescent nightmare. There is no telling when this beast is to be unleashed, no warning signs, so the recipient of the venom is left utterly stupefied and not a little shocked. A full-blown diva fest of the highest order provoked no ill-feeling or, indeed, the merest reaction from the lucid, resting boyform of the soon to be teen, yet a misplaced (though witty, if I do say so myself) remark has me marked out as the enemy of the day. Whoops.
Let us hope that the transformation is reversable and, as promptly as it first occured, the moment the suffix 'teen' is dropped from their ages, the boys becomes serene again. I fear this may be wishful thinking however, with those adorable whippersnappers with puppy-dog eyes, moist with innocence and expectation, long gone and firmly in the past. Alas. Yet a new streak of interest and another dynamic layer is added into the grand scheme of things; three teenagers (not without their issues), a menopausal mother, mildly eccentric recluse of a father, three aging cats (with their own intricate family workings) and several gazillion bacteria and other parasitic life forms running amok in the grime, adolescent muck etc all under one roof does not make for passive entertainment or dull moments. How enriching.
For an obsessive control freak such as myself, I find it stupidly easy to live amidst vast quantities of yuck. Table corners must be perpendicular to furniture, cushions must be arranged and plumped just so, there is absolutely not a chance in hell that snotty tissue can be placed there, and on no terms whatsoever can you sit like that. But dust can layer thickly atop every surface, scrappy bit of paper, nook or cranny, my non-existent filing system can diffuse itself all over the shop, and (brace yourselves in anticipation of disgust) toenail clippings can nestle happily in hair-strewn carpet. What is that all about? I'm blowed if I know. If I could click my fingers and live in pristine cleanliness I no doubt would, but as this unfortunately not an option (though not for wont of trying, naturally) life is just too bloody short.
On the subject of control, what I had been so terrified of actually seemed to give me a greater sense of control and was almost empowering. It was like I had seen the light, or felt the 'click' Brick so yearns for in 'Cat...'. A tide-turning moment if ever there was one. Though I felt sick, it was in that satisfying way; satiated. Though for christ's sake don't let the A hear. Haven't quite got my head around it yet, and still finding my feet (god, could I include any other parts of my anatomy?) but i foresee good things. I am buoyed up, and ready to tackle. Fingers crossed my nerve is not lost.
Time for a beechams methinks, anything to stop the sheer persistance of this dratted phlegm.
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