OUR kids, like most kids, don't appreciate anything. They take it all for granted - don't know they're born.
They'd been treated to a week in London: seeing the sights, going to shows, eating out, spending a small fortune, and generally having a great time. Big Ben, The London Eye, Hamleys toy shop, Arsenal football ground, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, The Lion King - they'd seen the lot.
But on the way back up the motorway, all we had was the usual constant bickering, leading to the inevitable cry from the driver's seat: "You lot don't appreciate anything!"
When we got home, Mum and I had to go off to the shops to stock up on supplies, leaving the four kids with their Auntie Hazel. It was a strange sight indeed which greeted us when we arrived back an hour or so later. The door was opened by seven-year-old Max, sporting a shirt, tie, and neatly-combed hair. His 12-year-old sister was similarly attired.
"Sir, Madam, come this way," instructed Max, enigmatically. We were led upstairs by all four of them, with Auntie Hazel hovering in the background. With a sweeping hand movement, Max opened the bathroom door on to a world of wonder. "It's for you - to say thanks for the holiday," said Hannah, with a big smile. "Yeah, thanks," the rest of them chorused.
The bathroom was illuminated by candles, floating in the sink, and positioned around the side of the bath, which was filled with pink bubbly stuff. Beside the bath was a small table with three bowls of crisps, assorted dips, two glasses of wine, and a wooden "mouse massager".
"Go on then get in. The bubble bath's called Sex Bomb," said Max, shoving me in the back and closing the door behind us. There was no way we could both get in the bath - not with my torn cartilage awaiting surgery - so Mum got in first, still finding it hard to believe that the kids had been so thoughtful. It must have been a particularly big sacrifice for Max because he's besotted with his mum and doesn't normally like us to spend any time alone, never mind share a Sex Bomb bath.
Jack, ten, immediately started serenading us on the guitar from beyond the locked door with one of the few tunes he's mastered - Mad World - and it was all we could do to suppress the giggles.
After a while, Mum got out and I got in. It was important that the kids were left with the impression that we'd shared the bath.
"Who'd have thought it?" I sighed, relaxing in the cherryade-coloured fizz. "They do appreciate us after all."
As I leaned back, the world seemed a far better place. The tensions of the M1 were drifting through the window and the flame of romance was burning more brightly than ever. Then there was a sudden hiss close to my right ear. "Hell's teeth, I've singed my hair," I screamed, instinctively ducking my head under the water, banging my bad knee on the side of the bath, and making such a splash that the offending candle and three others were snuffed out.
Mum was in fits of laughter, my poor leg was throbbing, a disturbing smell of burnt hair was wafting across the room, and, all the while, a guitar was being tenderly strummed on the other side of the door.
Mad world - it's a very, very, mad world...
THE THINGS THEY SAY
THE Dad At Large Roadshow made its way to Stokesley Ladies Luncheon Club, where Pat Croft mentioned the story about grandson Jack, aged four, had looked at his mum and started blinking madly.
"Mum, have I got stable eyes?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" she asked. "Have I got stable eyes?" he repeated, making his eyes dart from side to side.
"I've no idea what you mean," his mum said, completely baffled.
"Well," said Jack, "Daddy says I can't ride my bike until I've got stable eyes."
THE same Jack telephoned his grandma to say that his dad was ill "with an ant in his tummy". Upon further questioning, it turned out that he had a tummy bug.
THANKS also to Jill Lee who told how grandson Dylan Hill, 21 months-old, had heard thunder outside and told his mum: "The lions in the sky were roaring."
Published: ??/??/2004
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