It's a Dad's Life:There's an early episode of The Simpsons where you see Homer teetering down the stairs. On his way he narrowly misses a number of items that every family knows have no place on the stairs - a rollerskate, a skateboard, upturned scissors, a carving knife and, I think, an active chainsaw.
That's our house. If I check now I can be pretty sure there'll be loose clothes, Barbies, maybe a couple of books or DVDs, the odd miniature piece from a doll's house, all designed to cause maximum impact when they come in contact with a misplaced foot. I can harass the kids from morning till night not to leave their gear lying around: they don't care. It's the Missus that's dangerous. She sees the stairs as another point of storage, a resting point for clean and dirty laundry as it makes its way to and from the washing machine.
We've had the argument numerous times. My question is "Why can't clothes, clean or dirty, be moved from basket to machine in one movement. Why the need for pit-stops? They're clothes, not the offspring of Lewis Hamilton." Her response: "If you weren't such a filthy animal, there'd be no problem." It's her stock answer to anything I have an issue with. Sometimes she has a point.
Couple of weeks back, I'm sitting at this desk staring blankly at the screen. The Missus walks by grumbling, laden with a bulging basket of reeking menswear. I feel the filthy look more than see it before hearing a stumble and a crash. The monsters are standing at the top of the last five steps that lead to the kitchen, staring at their mother who is askew on the tiled floor, clutching her left foot and squealing. The noise from her is such that I expect to see a bone jutting from her shin when I get there, past the pile of toys littering the way.
But fortunately it's not that bad. We get the ankle rotating and have her walking up and down the kitchen within minutes. It's not too bad, but it's bad enough to warrant a trip to the VHI clinic. One X-ray and €165 later it emerges that she's torn ligaments in her foot, and that it'll take a few weeks to come right.
The urge to say "I Told You So" is close to overpowering, but I resist, just smarting a little at the fee for what I figure is a bit more than a bad bruise. Us boys would have walked it off, don't you know.
Fast forward 10 days and I'm on laundry duty, as the foot has to be rested. There has been much limping, sighing and facial contort-
ions at this tragic near-loss of limb.
For lugging the clothes around, we use an old plastic baby bath which is so wide that peripheral vision doesn't get a look in. So, I'm manoeuvring a full load past the Missus who is sprawled across the stairs explaining her misfortune over the phone to whatever random punter will listen. As I inch through the space, the sole of my foot hits what later transpires to be a wooden toy carrot. My ankle turns, I rotate backwards, the basket launches to the ceiling, ass hits deck and I tumble the last flight.
No amount of "I Told You So's" can placate me now. I'm raging and roaring and banging my fist on the floor in pain. When is this house going to revert to being a home and not an adventure playground for under-sevens? I am murderous.
The kids witness my fall and ensuing tantrum and revert to their latest game. The Missus continues her tale of woe on the phone. This is not my house, I live but to serve ye, my lieges.
