The Grumblemouth Incident

Sometimes, trying to be 'fun Daddy' can backfire quite badly:

I am bathing the girls. They are in the tub, each wearing a pair of swimming goggles, and each armed with a small water pistol that they are spraying, gleefully, into the others face. I am sheltering behind the shower curtain, which is partially extended to stop more water from going onto the floor - a floor which has long since edged out of 'damp', through 'wet' and is now heading firmly into 'soaking'.
"Try not to get your hair wet," I say, pointlessly, for the ninth time. "Mummy won't like it".
This is actually massively hypocritical of me, as the whole situation is a result of my lax parenting, a situation that the Eldest has readily picked up on:
"But you gave us the water pistols..." she says.
"Pistols!" shrieks her sister, excitedly.
"Yes, yes..." I agree. "But I didn't think you'd shoot each other."
"But you said: Why don't you shoot each other..."
"Did I?"
"Pistols! WATER PISTOLS!" cries Youngest.
"Yes, you said: Don't you dare shoot me, but you can shoot each other..."
"Ah, yes. Yes, I did. But I didn't really mean in the face..."
"In the face!" adds Youngest, in voice wheeling with joy.
"But you specially went and got our swimming goggles..." continues her sister, coolly returning fire, "...to stop it going in our eyes."
"That was a precautionary measure," I say. "It wasn't meant to encourage you to get your hair wet. Mummy won't like it if you get your hair wet."
"She won't like the water on the floor, either..." she observes.
"No..." I agree sadly. The floor is far too wet now to be dismissed as an accident. It takes a concerted effort and a protracted absence of parental guidance to get a floor that wet, particularly given that the water pistols are tiny and only hold about an eggcup full of water each, and (most damningly), require my assistance in order to be refilled. It is clear I can't just blame the girls for the mess: all three of us are going down for this...
I decide I will distract them from the water pistols, and think I may have had a brainwave as to how. I start knocking gently on the side of the tub, out of their line of sight.
"What's that knocking?" asks Eldest.

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In bed with Mrs. Bricket

Sunday morning. I am dozing fitfully in bed, numb with sleep. It is my day of the weekend for a lie-in, having been up early doing 'Daddy Duty' yesterday, and I am determined to wring every last precious second of rest out of the morning. Sadly, others in my household have decided that my allotted time is up.
The door crashes open. A diminutive figure, all curly hair and determined jawline, struts into the room as if she owns the place. It is the Youngest, and she has the 'There will be no nonsense from you' demeanour of a nineteenth century land baron dealing with a tenant who has fallen behind with the rent.
"Wake up Daddy,"she announces."It is time for you to go to school."
This seems unlikely: I have not been to school for well over twenty years. I turn my head to the bedside clock, which reveals that the time is exactly 9.30 a.m, almost to the second. This is significant, as it the time my wife and I have agreed is the earliest point we will let the children disturb the slumber of whichever parent has a lie-in. My wife often generously lets me sleep longer, and the fact that she has allowed Youngest to wake me at the first possible opportunity is not a good sign: it suggests that the children have already worn down her defences this morning and she can no longer cope without reinforcements. This suggests that what is about to follow is likely to be trying...
It is. Youngest drags open the curtains, and pale November daylight limps lazily into the room. I notice that the the air is full of soft drizzle and on the horizon are dark ominous clouds: it looks as if the sky is made of old bruises and fresh tears.

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