Since it looks as though Daddy is no longer going to update the blog, I have taken it upon myself to attempt a revival of this once mildly popular webpage. According to him, his absence – if you could stretch your credulity that far, given what a gobshite he is – comes from “not having anything to say”, except perhaps to relate a disquieting episode in which he emerged from an ill-equipped public toilet in Rhyl, North Wales, looking conspicuous by the absence of one of his shirtsleeves. “Heroism comes in many guises”, he said to Mummy after concluding his story, and went on nodding to himself with the solemnity of one who has suddenly understood the wisdom of his own words.
Daddy, whose hopes of buying a house in Italy were at one point as high as the midday sun, has watched them describe a descending arc across the sky before setting behind a korma-coloured mountain of soggy nappies. As a result, most of his days are now spent moping around the place. Disturbingly, I have often caught him eyeing me with that intrigued look a creative and adventurous cook would cast upon a previously unconsidered ingredient. Luckily, there is Mummy, who is the one bright light in this otherwise gloomy harbour, though not without blame either as evidenced by a particularly perplexing dance she frequently performs to Boney M’s Brown Girl in the Ring which she has on a loop.
Come to think of it, there is a good deal about these two that is very unsettling. I have now been observing them for the best part of nine weeks and I have to say their parenting skills – not least their ability to provide me with any acceptable form of entertainment – leaves plenty to be desired. For instance, is it absolutely necessary to hover above my Moses basket first thing in the morning with their mouths hanging open like Count Dracula and his dishevelled lady-friend in what I can only hope is a dreadfully misguided attempt to elicit a smile from me? Far from encouraging me to smile back, it makes me want to shriek with fear. A horror show, is what it is.
Then there is the unending stream of visitors who seem to congregate around the place these days. Overnight, the flat has become the stamping ground for a gaggle of women of a certain age and ample breastage who, without exception, wear tops cut much lower than it would have been seemly for someone half their age. (It is my contention that just as a horse’s age can be determined from a quick glance at its knashers, so too can a woman’s age be revealed – or at least educatedly guessed at – by the expansion of her décolletage.) The acreage of exposed leathery skin is then liberally doused with the sickliest perfumes that can be bought at Superdrug without a prescription, on the off-chance that they might one day bump into George Clooney. Of course, if that day ever comes, Georgey boy is in for the motorboating session of his life; in the meantime, however, the dubious privilege of smelling like potpourri remains all mine.
As you can probably imagine, all this has taken its toll on someone so young. I’m not ashamed to confess occasionally daydreaming about the possibility of a terrible mix-up at the maternity ward, and that in time someone will realise their monstrous error and reunite me with my real parents. But even I can see that the odds are stacked against it, as I apparently bear more than a passing resemblance to Daddy. My only hope now comes from the occasional mention of a Nigerian toilet attendant at Spearmint Rhino, though I suspect this to be one of Daddy’s ‘jokes’. I am employing the quotes here because although he makes a lot of these jokes, I am yet to see anyone laugh at any of them, and this particular one tends to cause Mummy to purse her lips further than usual.
And in case you’re wondering, yes, I have written to the Jeremy Kyle show about this matter as I believe all possible avenues should be explored. In the end, it may well be that Peter Cushing and his wild-haired girlfriend here really are my parents and that I’m stuck with them for the duration.
Outside, the world looks an exciting place where people can enter TV talent contests or play online bingo; in here th… ah, there goes the doorbell again. The scent of patchouli oil from the previous visitor still clings to my skin like the tentacles of an octopus with separation issues, but one ploughs on with already characteristic stoicism. Daddy is probably right: heroism does indeed come in many guises.