It would be fair to say that the arrival of the fattest boy in the whole world was preceded by not inconsequential levels of anxiety.
When the day dawned, it was with a slightly quickened pulse that I walked home from the morning school run, a satchel of M's medical supplies weighing me down like a pack horse. I spent the day feverishly researching anaphylactic shock and CPR and before I could say nuts it was time to pick up the boys.
Unfortunately, someone in the class had provided biscuits for their birthday so my first experience of M at close quarters involved being doused with the saliva that jumped out of his mouth at the very mention of biscuits. I am, however, nothing if not a stoic and I forced back the nausea and pressed on like a trooper.
We rounded the school gates and I merrily suggested Son skipped ahead to show M the way. "It's OK" M said, "I know the way".
"Oh, you mean you know where our road is", I replied. (For reference, our road is a cul de sac, there is no reason to go down it unless you live there, and M lives miles in the opposite direction)
"No", he said, "I mean I know where you live"
"Oh", I said, "You mean Son has explained the way already"
"No (you moron - implied, not actually spoken) I mean I've been there. My dad got my uncle who's really, really, really big (and will hit you hard if I say I don't like you - implied, not actually spoken) to drive us over last night to check out your house (because, unlike you, they are psychos - not even implied, but understood)"
"Oh" I said.
Postscript: To be honest, the rest of the afternoon was ridiculously uneventful. I managed to keep M alive, managed not to be sick as he stuffed his face and managed to drop him off safe and sound at home without being accosted by a big uncle in an even bigger car.
Thursday 21 October 2010
Wednesday 20 October 2010
In which M's mother worries I'm a psycho
So, to recap briefly, Son has fallen in love with the fattest boy in the whole world and I have been forced to approach an unknown person and strike up conversation. Furthermore, I have invited said fattest boy in the whole world for tea.
The initial exchange went well. M, it seems, is an amiable chap who gets along swimmingly with everyone. He would positively love to come to tea. It would be delightful. Again, I am writing metaphorically since such phrases didn't enter the conversation at all, but I'm convinced they might have if only M's mother had stopped smiling and nodding her head in a fashion not unlike the dog in the Churchill advert. We set the date for the following week and that, as they say, was that.
Until the next day, when M's mother asked me if I was a psycho.
You may never have been asked that question. It may, infact, be a question you've given no thought to whatsoever. I have been asked it before, but to be honest, the context then was so far removed from this one that any preparation that went into answering last time around had to be ditched. Instead, I fumbled the very depths of my brain for a clue as to how to respond to such a query.
I opted, in the end (quickly, for I feared any long delay might see suspicion mount), for a short speech on my role as upstanding parent and school helper. I'd like to think there is nothing desperate at all about mentioning that I've had a CRB check. Granted, the benefit of that accolade dimished slightly once I'd disclosed (as any upstanding citizen would) that actually such checks are only valid on the day, hour, minute, second they're issued so actually by now there was every chance that I was indeed a psycho. Anyway, it seemed enough and M's mum left placated.
Until the next day.
Her initial fears had been dispelled. She'd checked me out with the school family worker and luckily I passed with flying colours. (This is mainly because Husband's family is a bit like a good version of the mafia round here and I've been trading off their past exploits ever since Son started school.) Today's concern was the fact that she didn't drive so wouldn't be able to pick M up. No problem, I gushed, I'll bring him home. And all was fine again.
Until the next day.
It would be wrong to say that this day brought a problem to the table. It was more a list of potential problems, all of which could happen while M was at my house, all of which would involve medical intervention and possibly my arrest. M, it turns out, is allergic to nuts, doesn't have asthma exactly but carries an inhaler (for fun??), takes Piriton when he fancies it and just to top it off sometimes enjoys a quick slather of moisturising cream of an afternoon. It would be fair to say that receipt of this knowledge took some of the initial shine off my sense of anticipation, but I put my best foot forward.
Until the next day.
When M's mother demonstrated an attention to detail I'm frankly in awe of. She had, displaying prodigious levels of planning, checked the weather forecast for our allotted play date and discovered - to her abject horror - the possibility of thunder. She didn't know, she said, how my children would be around thunder, would it be OK did I think, should we cancel?
Obviously by now it should have been clear that yes, we should cancel but instead I summoned a smile and breezed, "no, of course not. Everything will be fine...."
The initial exchange went well. M, it seems, is an amiable chap who gets along swimmingly with everyone. He would positively love to come to tea. It would be delightful. Again, I am writing metaphorically since such phrases didn't enter the conversation at all, but I'm convinced they might have if only M's mother had stopped smiling and nodding her head in a fashion not unlike the dog in the Churchill advert. We set the date for the following week and that, as they say, was that.
Until the next day, when M's mother asked me if I was a psycho.
You may never have been asked that question. It may, infact, be a question you've given no thought to whatsoever. I have been asked it before, but to be honest, the context then was so far removed from this one that any preparation that went into answering last time around had to be ditched. Instead, I fumbled the very depths of my brain for a clue as to how to respond to such a query.
I opted, in the end (quickly, for I feared any long delay might see suspicion mount), for a short speech on my role as upstanding parent and school helper. I'd like to think there is nothing desperate at all about mentioning that I've had a CRB check. Granted, the benefit of that accolade dimished slightly once I'd disclosed (as any upstanding citizen would) that actually such checks are only valid on the day, hour, minute, second they're issued so actually by now there was every chance that I was indeed a psycho. Anyway, it seemed enough and M's mum left placated.
Until the next day.
Her initial fears had been dispelled. She'd checked me out with the school family worker and luckily I passed with flying colours. (This is mainly because Husband's family is a bit like a good version of the mafia round here and I've been trading off their past exploits ever since Son started school.) Today's concern was the fact that she didn't drive so wouldn't be able to pick M up. No problem, I gushed, I'll bring him home. And all was fine again.
Until the next day.
It would be wrong to say that this day brought a problem to the table. It was more a list of potential problems, all of which could happen while M was at my house, all of which would involve medical intervention and possibly my arrest. M, it turns out, is allergic to nuts, doesn't have asthma exactly but carries an inhaler (for fun??), takes Piriton when he fancies it and just to top it off sometimes enjoys a quick slather of moisturising cream of an afternoon. It would be fair to say that receipt of this knowledge took some of the initial shine off my sense of anticipation, but I put my best foot forward.
Until the next day.
When M's mother demonstrated an attention to detail I'm frankly in awe of. She had, displaying prodigious levels of planning, checked the weather forecast for our allotted play date and discovered - to her abject horror - the possibility of thunder. She didn't know, she said, how my children would be around thunder, would it be OK did I think, should we cancel?
Obviously by now it should have been clear that yes, we should cancel but instead I summoned a smile and breezed, "no, of course not. Everything will be fine...."
Tuesday 19 October 2010
The fattest boy in the whole world
One day last year Son came home in a state of frenzied excitement because a boy called M had spoken to him.
M was in Year 1 and they were confined to separate playgrounds but their love had flourished against the odds, across the barricades.
'Who's M?' I said. 'Well,' said Son, before a not so much pregnant but 3 months overdue pause for dramatic effect. 'He has black skin, he's in Year 1 and he's the fattest boy in the whole world'. All of these were terms of endearment you understand. In Son's world being the fattest boy in, like, the whole entire world is something very cool, rather than something very likely to kill you.
Fast forward to this year and Son himself has been catapulted into the heady world of Year 1. He has cast boyish things aside and become a man, and there by his side, by dint of his school's dual year teaching style, is none other than M.
I worked out a while ago who M was. He is not - of course - the fattest boy in the whole world, but he was readily identifiable not by his black skin but by the fact that he had his whole mouth and nose inside a packet of sweets that seemed to be being sucked inexorably into him, like dust up a hoover. In a similar way to an over full hoover bag, there was just something about him that made you not want to stand too close.
Son was of course ecstatic to be thrust into the bosom of his idol. I write metaphorically of course, no-one would survive being thrust into M's actual bosom. I was pretty much ambivalent... until it became clear that a playdate was required and that I would be forced to 'make friends' with M's mother.
For a couple of weeks I feigned ignorance when faced with the question of M's parentage but then I could fob off no longer and the deed was done. 'I, um, don't know if, um M likes Son or not' I mumbled, 'but Son would really like him to come to tea'. And with that, the deed was done.
TBC
M was in Year 1 and they were confined to separate playgrounds but their love had flourished against the odds, across the barricades.
'Who's M?' I said. 'Well,' said Son, before a not so much pregnant but 3 months overdue pause for dramatic effect. 'He has black skin, he's in Year 1 and he's the fattest boy in the whole world'. All of these were terms of endearment you understand. In Son's world being the fattest boy in, like, the whole entire world is something very cool, rather than something very likely to kill you.
Fast forward to this year and Son himself has been catapulted into the heady world of Year 1. He has cast boyish things aside and become a man, and there by his side, by dint of his school's dual year teaching style, is none other than M.
I worked out a while ago who M was. He is not - of course - the fattest boy in the whole world, but he was readily identifiable not by his black skin but by the fact that he had his whole mouth and nose inside a packet of sweets that seemed to be being sucked inexorably into him, like dust up a hoover. In a similar way to an over full hoover bag, there was just something about him that made you not want to stand too close.
Son was of course ecstatic to be thrust into the bosom of his idol. I write metaphorically of course, no-one would survive being thrust into M's actual bosom. I was pretty much ambivalent... until it became clear that a playdate was required and that I would be forced to 'make friends' with M's mother.
For a couple of weeks I feigned ignorance when faced with the question of M's parentage but then I could fob off no longer and the deed was done. 'I, um, don't know if, um M likes Son or not' I mumbled, 'but Son would really like him to come to tea'. And with that, the deed was done.
TBC
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