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Flight Mode

Earlier this week, I went to visit my friend across the country, in Sydney. (Kit says I need to correct that to ‘a friend’. He says if I write ‘my friend’ it sounds like I only have one, and that might inhibit his chances of fame because nobody wants to follow someone who is totes unpopular; fair enough. I actually caught up with three friends in the two days I was there, but in Kit’s opinion that is a pathetic effort considering I lived in Sydney for seven years, can’t I exaggerate for his sake, and don’t I even care about him at all?!)

While we were sitting pretending to pay attention to the safety demonstration, Kit hissed at me in a stage whisper, “Why do they only have toilets for men and disabled people?”

“What do you mean?” I asked blankly, clearly seeing the sign in front of us for men’s and women’s facilities.

‘Well, there’s a picture of a person in trousers, so I assume that’s meant to be a man. And the other one is a picture of a one legged person in an ill-fitting dress.” He squinted and added after some consideration, “Or possibly a popsicle.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, “I wear dresses as often as my brother. And as far as I’m aware, he hasn’t worn one since that incident in ‘98. I don’t like them in case I have to climb a ladder. What alternative would you prefer?”

“Well, they could put a picture of a big cock on one and…” he trailed off as he noticed my expression, adding, “No. I suppose not. Perhaps just the symbols for male and female, then.”

“A much better idea,” I agreed.

The flight attendant conducting the safety demonstration asked the woman next to us to put her mobile phone in flight mode at least three times. The women looked confused, and went to put down her tray table. The next time, she put it up. Then she fiddled with her window shade. The flight attendant asked me, “Do you think she understands me?” I shook my head.

Eventually, once we were well into the air, and I was attempting not to empty my bowels in terror, wondering if she was going to cause an air crash, she appeared to turn her phone off and put it away. Then she turned to me and began a conversation in perfect English, all the while acting like a perfectly normal person.

I spent the duration of the conversation refraining from punching her in the nose. I don’t like people who think the law doesn’t apply to them. Gravity. I’d genuinely love to see them try and get around that one!

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The Saint Patrick’s Day Surprise

This morning, I was giving Saffie a bath (cleaning my car), while Kit played in the bushes. Suddenly he came galloping towards me, squeaking, “Mum! Mum! There’s a leprechaun in the bushes.”

“I see,” I said, barely looking up (it is Saint Patrick’s Day), “And does this leprechaun have a name?”

“Buggered if I know,” he muttered, “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“We have to help him! Someone has buried him up to his neck. It might already be too late,” Kit insisted dramatically, beckoning.

In the past, I had been used to Kit’s adventures with his imaginary friends. This conversation was not going at all how I expected. It was out of control like a dog on a polished floor.

Intrigued, I followed him to the stand of trees and bushes where the proclaimed leprechaun was lurking. As we approached, I got a close look at it.

“Kit,” I said kindly, “That is in no more need of excavation than you or I. It is a garden statue.”

“Gnome,” he corrected, “Statues are called gnomes when they’re in gardens.”

According to his theory, this would mean that the statues all around Perth including our ‘founding fathers’, and also some down the road of prehistoric Aboriginal people would be considered ‘gnomes’. I remained prudently silent on that matter.

“Anyway,” he added defensively, “That’s not it. There was a leprechaun right in front there. Otherwise, I would have been able to see the gnome.”

“I see,” I said, “And this leprechaun was buried up to his neck, too?”

“Well, obviously not, or he couldn’t have got away,” Kit conceded.

Now would be a good time to point out that his ‘gnome’ was actually an ornamental Buddha’s head. I felt that that really did need addressing before he inadvertently offended any Buddhists.

So, with the aid of Google, Kit and I learned almost everything we needed to know about Buddhism.

In his usual style, Kit had to have the last word, “I think it’s wonderful that they revered him,” he said charitably, “Even though he had some terrible skin disease that made him all grey.”

He then added, “Funny thing that. The leprechaun’s skin was green.”

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The Chocolate War

Yesterday afternoon, I went to fetch my hidden stash of chocolate, only to discover that apparently, I had never been in possession of a hidden stash of chocolate. In hindsight, in the pantry, behind the lentils, would have been a better place to hide my jewellery from burglars than to hide chocolate.

I confronted the likely culprits. Raised voices and vehement denials ensued, as Kit concocted an imaginative tale about stoned midnight burglars with the munchies, who tidied up after themselves. When I pointed out how likely a story that was because the doors were all locked, he finally confessed.

He then petulantly asked why I didn’t just shut up and help myself to some of his roasted termite patties?

“Because I once saw a dog pass something more appetizing than those!” I spluttered, enraged.

“Well, you made them!” He said accusingly.

“I made them for you for a treat!” I objected.

“I know, and I appreciate the effort, but those patties are bloody awful. They’re like wild animal food, and I’m a tame animal. I was hoping you would eat them so I didn’t have to,” he admitted.

“Fine. We agree on something,” I conceded, “Let’s go feed them to a wild animal. But you can’t go replacing them in your diet with chocolate. I’ll make you something else healthy. How long did it take you to eat all that, anyway? You must have been at it for weeks.”

“Oh, no. It only took a few days,” he said, as His Dad quickly slipped silently out of the room, “I was just helping Dad.”

So Kit and I took an expedition to see if we could find a wild animal to eat the termite patties. His Dad would keep!

The magpies weren’t interested. Nor were the mudlarks. The kookaburras just laughed at us. Finally, we offered them to a passing dog, who to tried to bury them. It was not clear whether he wanted to bury food to hide, and come back to it later, or he just believed that excrement should be buried.  

“I know!” Kit exclaimed, desperate to be rid of the offensive patties, but very aware that I would not let them go to waste, “Why don’t we take them home and feed them to Dad. We could chocolate coat them so he eats them by mistake, as a sort of punishment for eating your chocolate.”

“Well, you ate some of the chocolate, too,” I reminded him, “What’s your punishment?”

“How do you think I know how terrible the patties are?” he asked, “I already ate one; I’ve been punished enough!”

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The Big Dig

This afternoon, I walked into the kitchen to find Kit unconscious on the floor. He hasn’t had daytime naps since he was little, so this was most unusual for him. I called his name, and he didn’t respond.  I tried again. Nothing. When he didn’t even respond to being called ‘Kitten’, (he usually bites me), I panicked.

“Eew! Get off, Mum!” he spluttered as I began CPR.

“Thank god you’re okay!” I gasped, hugging him.

“I’d be even more okay if you stopped molesting me,” he grumbled.

“Sorry! I was starting CPR. I thought you were unconscious,” I explained, picking fur out of my teeth.

“There’s nothing wrong me,” he said pointedly, “I was asleep. According to the Spanish, an afternoon siesta in the summer is perfectly acceptable, even for adults. I may be too old for naps, now that I’m four, but I still get a bit tired in the afternoon,” he confessed, “I think a siesta is a good solution for being too grown up for naps, don’t you?” he asked.

“Absolutely!” I agreed, privately thinking that it’s more like a synonym (but I wasn’t going to go down that path and ruin a perfectly good solution to Kit being under my feet). “So what were you doing that left you so worn out?” I asked, and my eye was drawn in the direction of his outstretched paw.

Spilling from his bedroom door was a tsunami of shredded toilet paper, cardboard and packaging material.

“You’re always banging on about reduce-reuse-recycle, so I thought I would reuse some stuff,” Kit explained.

“Yes, true,” I conceded, “Me and my big mouth.”

Kit peered closely at me, “I never noticed that before, but now that you mention it, you do have an enormous mouth!”

“So,” I said, “I give up. What is it? Art? Insulation?”

“It’s not art, and I don’t know what an insultation is but it doesn’t sound very nice,” he answered, explaining, “My meerkat instincts are coming out and I wanted to dig a burrow.”

“And how was shredding all my packaging materials supposed to achieve that?” I asked.

“I never said it worked,” he said sulkily, “Every time I try to dig, it just falls everywhere.”

“If you want to dig, we can get you a sand pit,” I offered, “But I’m not sure we can get the kind of dirt to dig a burrow. I’m sure we can build you a burrow, though, if you would prefer to sleep in one than a bed.”

Kit looked mildly horrified. “I want to sleep in my bed, in the burrow,” he requested, “I’m not a wild animal!”

“All right then. Let’s clean up this mess, and plan how to renovate you a burrow!” I said enthusiastically.

An hour later, I was feeling a bit less enthusiastic. In fact, I could have done with a siesta. I turned around to find Kit asleep in a pile of rubbish.