Never work with animals or children,goes the old showbiz adage. My additional advice is "Don't live with them either,if you can help it".I have never wanted a pet. If anything is going to be spoilt,pampered and stroked, it will be me, thank you very much. I didn't want any children,either. However, life and fate have conspired to ensure that I have from time to time, shared living quarters with both.This is what happened yesterday.I rang up for one of those "informal discussions" about a job I fancied. Anyone who has done this knows that it is often rather difficult to pin down the person who is offering themselves up in this way;they will be in a meeting,teaching,or rowing round the world in a kayak whenever you call.I did eventually get through to the right woman, and we were "informally chatting" like Billy-Ho,when my Mother's dog was warmly and neatly sick on my foot. At the same time, the Giant Boy,home from school with a cold,bellowed "Where are my underpants? This pair make my balls itch!" Unlike his usual KGB-conspiracy mutter, this question was loud and clear, and could have been heard in the Dominican Republic. I hope that was all informal enough for everyone.
Some dogs, and most babies, look cute,I will grant you.This is a SNARE of nature and is to stop us abandoning them on buses. But they are both designed to remind us that we are not only mortal,but two paces away from Neanderthal. Well, one very short pace, in some people's cases.
My Mother adores dogs,but has little interest in babies. Dogs, to her way of thinking, can do no wrong. When a bloodcurdling report of someone having their face removed by one comes her way, she simply remarks "Well, they must have annoyed it". She refuses,in addition to recognise that they,to put it bluntly, smell. Or that they eagerly seek out the areas of human beings which are, for excellent reasons, usually covered and unmentionable. I was once pinned to a stack of Daily Mirrors by an Alsatian eager to make my intimate aquaintance, in our newsagent's shop in Fazackerley. I was about sixteen,and deeply self-conscious. Not a quality of which said dog could have been accused. On its hind legs it was a good four inches taller than me, and there was no possible doubt about its masculinity. It took two quite large men to get it off me.My Mother, perusing the Daily Mail,raised one eyebrow and said "Don't be silly,it LIKES you,the big softie". I am here to tell you that no part of that animal was soft. The next time I was gripped with such singleness of purpose, I was in the company of First Year Mechanical Engineering students.
Dogs exist,like some terrible hairy Rider In The Chariot,to remind us of our bestial origins,and to embarrass the hell out of us by drawing attention to functions and parts better left unmentioned and unrevealed. Children fulfill the same function,but are also gifted with speech.This gives them tremendous scope. When the GB was a G Baby, I used to gaze into his little face, and yearn for the happy time when he would start to utter.What no-one tells you is that as soon as that state is reached,you are wishing that they would button it. I "terrored" mine, as he would put it,sufficiently to quell most unfortunate remarks as they were on their way out of the rosebud lips. You have about five seconds in which to decide whether a sharp pinch, which will stop the forming comment about someone on the train's physical oddity,( but will cause loud tears, lamentation and slime), is preferable to the inevitably crystalline enunciation given to such questions as; "Why has that man got a big lump on his head?" and "Why is that lady that colour ?". You might as well go in for bomb disposal.
When I had a proper job and was a worthwhile carbon unit, I used to go into work in a suit , give presentations and stuff like that. I would so often reach into a jacket pocket and discover a half-chewed ginger biscuit stuck to a Lego brick, or a tiny sock. And I didn't have any children then, so this was a complete mystery..
There's a film out at present called "I Don't Know Why She Bothers",or somesuch. It looks very irksome, from what I have seen,and is based upon a book which sets out the struggles of a high-achieving woman to blah blah, despite her blah blah and HIS blah. You know the sort of thing.But,like the goldfish scene in "Which One Of You Bitches Is My Mother?"; there is an unforgettable bit. Our heroine takes a rolling pin to some mince pies she is giving her child to take (why?) to a school "Bake Sale". She batters the blasted things to buggery not as you or I might, because she is half-cut ,it is midnight, and she is enraged by having to even think about such mind-injuringly tedious stuff, but to make these poxy pies appear "home made". Bah! Mine gets a Gregg's pasty still in the bag, and counts himself lucky. Unless the dog has got to it first.
Some dogs, and most babies, look cute,I will grant you.This is a SNARE of nature and is to stop us abandoning them on buses. But they are both designed to remind us that we are not only mortal,but two paces away from Neanderthal. Well, one very short pace, in some people's cases.
My Mother adores dogs,but has little interest in babies. Dogs, to her way of thinking, can do no wrong. When a bloodcurdling report of someone having their face removed by one comes her way, she simply remarks "Well, they must have annoyed it". She refuses,in addition to recognise that they,to put it bluntly, smell. Or that they eagerly seek out the areas of human beings which are, for excellent reasons, usually covered and unmentionable. I was once pinned to a stack of Daily Mirrors by an Alsatian eager to make my intimate aquaintance, in our newsagent's shop in Fazackerley. I was about sixteen,and deeply self-conscious. Not a quality of which said dog could have been accused. On its hind legs it was a good four inches taller than me, and there was no possible doubt about its masculinity. It took two quite large men to get it off me.My Mother, perusing the Daily Mail,raised one eyebrow and said "Don't be silly,it LIKES you,the big softie". I am here to tell you that no part of that animal was soft. The next time I was gripped with such singleness of purpose, I was in the company of First Year Mechanical Engineering students.
Dogs exist,like some terrible hairy Rider In The Chariot,to remind us of our bestial origins,and to embarrass the hell out of us by drawing attention to functions and parts better left unmentioned and unrevealed. Children fulfill the same function,but are also gifted with speech.This gives them tremendous scope. When the GB was a G Baby, I used to gaze into his little face, and yearn for the happy time when he would start to utter.What no-one tells you is that as soon as that state is reached,you are wishing that they would button it. I "terrored" mine, as he would put it,sufficiently to quell most unfortunate remarks as they were on their way out of the rosebud lips. You have about five seconds in which to decide whether a sharp pinch, which will stop the forming comment about someone on the train's physical oddity,( but will cause loud tears, lamentation and slime), is preferable to the inevitably crystalline enunciation given to such questions as; "Why has that man got a big lump on his head?" and "Why is that lady that colour ?". You might as well go in for bomb disposal.
When I had a proper job and was a worthwhile carbon unit, I used to go into work in a suit , give presentations and stuff like that. I would so often reach into a jacket pocket and discover a half-chewed ginger biscuit stuck to a Lego brick, or a tiny sock. And I didn't have any children then, so this was a complete mystery..
There's a film out at present called "I Don't Know Why She Bothers",or somesuch. It looks very irksome, from what I have seen,and is based upon a book which sets out the struggles of a high-achieving woman to blah blah, despite her blah blah and HIS blah. You know the sort of thing.But,like the goldfish scene in "Which One Of You Bitches Is My Mother?"; there is an unforgettable bit. Our heroine takes a rolling pin to some mince pies she is giving her child to take (why?) to a school "Bake Sale". She batters the blasted things to buggery not as you or I might, because she is half-cut ,it is midnight, and she is enraged by having to even think about such mind-injuringly tedious stuff, but to make these poxy pies appear "home made". Bah! Mine gets a Gregg's pasty still in the bag, and counts himself lucky. Unless the dog has got to it first.
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