Wednesday, 21 November 2012

Like a Family a long, long time ago....

CBS - I am not one for abbreviations when a good old common multi syllabic words will do and Creaky Bone Syndrome fits the bill. I am poorly as poorly as a person can be without visiting A&E, when every move or jerk deserves a round of applause. I am creaking worst than an empty, cold house on Halloween in a B-Movie Horror pic. I am deserving of lurve, more love than a loverheart message can give.

My teenagers do not give lurve, but a commentary that I knew that I am growing old, always was growing older than I care to think, I knew that this happens, that it was going to happen, get used to it appears as ripe a phrase as a Teenager wishes to suggest.

A phone rings, a daughter answers as she knows it is for her. It is. She discusses things.

She shouts at the poorly one - can I, the poorly person, give her a lift to somewhere, where things are going down. I give a look that says I am a poorly person and this look I believe is not too far a call for a teenager to guess I am saying a big fat no.

She gives me a look that used to be a puppy-please look, when toddlers could run around little fingers, until bigger fingers had reached in a wallet and a cuddly toy was king for a day and retired in three.

To cut a long story short her sympathy look has as much going for it as cardboard box of forgotten cuddly toys. She knew it was going to happen that when a toddler ages, body parts grow, cuteness disappears like fairy dust.. She is not a toddler no more, so no spells no.

She is now upping her game, she is a teenager, she is bringing out the Stare.

We are entering a new age of a Galaxy, a long long time ago........ where prequels became episodes and animated cartoons became clones.

In my world, here tonight the role of  Darth Vader transforms into the Daughtinator and I am Puke Pub-Crawler, for historical reasons that make me appear interesting at least in the past tense. We will duel in a Pryce equivalence of laser swords - the eyeballed-powered death-bitch-stare. Our eyes positively hum with antagonism, our pupils radiate with anti-matter that could re-define modern physics. The silence burns.

I am too old for staring, as well as running it appears. I will lose, like an aging Obi Wan that is now known as Ben.

I retreat to a higher plane, the Force is with me, guiding me to the toilet.

A daughter takes a bus.

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