A DAD'S LIFE:Negotiation skills can get you what you want, writes ADAM BROPHY
THE OLYMPICS are provoking much interest. The elder has adopted lane three as her own whatever the event. This means that every race they watch must be competitive between them. And sometimes the younger fancies lane three too.
“I want Lochte,” says the younger. Lochte is the current American poster boy for swimming.
“No,” says her sister. “He’s in three. He’s mine.”
“I don’t care, I said it first. I want him. Three is mine for this one.”
Ah, the old “I said it first” argument. What if barristers employed this line of reasoning?
For no matter how many times it is ridiculed by the defence, it will be adopted in the next breath when the defence turns prosecution. It was ever thus in sibling court. It drives me mental.
“You can have Phelps,” the elder says with disdain. Poor Michael Phelps. He has a wheelbarrow load of Olympic golds yet if he were a fish, the elder would throw him back. Just because Lochte took him apart in their first head-to- head, the elder regards him as a has-been. There’s no room for sentiment in their viewing of the Olympics. The master was ditched after one bad race.
“Phelps? Who’s he? No way,” the younger is just as heartless. This approach continues through archery and air shooting. I come down one morning to find them wrapped in blankets watching slalom kayaking. “What’s this?” I ask.
I get told to shush, some French guy is up. I sit, hear the kettle boiling in the kitchen, slump into the couch and think the tea can wait. The French guy is good, but there’s a Slovakian up in a few minutes who’s supposed to be better.
I cadge the corner of a blanket off the younger. She gives it up reluctantly but slides her feet under my legs as a trade. I wait two further competitors before making the tea. “Back in a mo.”
“Hurry!” they urge.
We move on to gymnastics. There are lots of small Chinese girls planting their landings off the vault solidly. My girls know all their names. One particularly efficient vaulter nails her latest attempt. “Wow,” I say.
“That’s not even her best discipline,” the elder informs me, “She’s better on the floor.”
“Wow,” I repeat, “Can we pause again, I need some toast. You two could probably do with eating something as well.” They tut, but freeze the screen. I am issued with instructions for their dietary requirements and sent to the kitchen with a warning not to dally.
By now it’s 10. I’m wondering should I blow off the day’s work or swear I’ll hit the PC after lunch. I swear. I promise myself I’ll start later.
I return with a trayload of toast, Weetabix, juice and tea. We resume the position. When the missus arrives half an hour later and opens the curtains we shriek like singed vampires.
“You lot, go outside and play for a while. You can’t sit in here all day. And you . . . could you at least tidy the kitchen if you’re on the bunk?”
“We will soon,” counters the elder. She has negotiation skills far superior to mine. “Just wait til the judo is over. Then we’ll bring the dogs out.”
See? She works it in ways I never consider. She requests additional time, or goods, or services, but offers something in return. She makes you think she’s doing you a favour all the time. I wish I knew where she learned this.
The judo has only started so it has a good hour to run. Even then we could hit the red button and follow it all afternoon – if the missus goes for it.
“Okay, but make sure the dogs get a decent run,” she says. She thinks she has made a good deal. The dogs pant, looking up at the screen, waiting for the men’s 73kg quarter-final clash. Even they know they’re not likely to get further than round the block later tonight.
I check the weather forecast. It might be sunny. They’ve probably got it wrong though, chances are there’ll be showers. We’d be forced indoors anyway. The three-day eventing moves into cross country this afternoon. I flick the Olympic menu up on screen and show the girls. They acknowledge with a thumbs up.
Is it unreasonable, I wonder, to move the beds down here?