Once - when I worked in life insurance - a woman told me that I sound like cheesecake.
Actually said something like, "Honey - you have a voice like cheesecake." Now I took that as a compliment as opposed to her basiclaly saying, "Honey - every time you speak I get much fatter." I was reminded of that particular compliment yesterday - and then again this morning - whilst watching old British versions of Thomas The Tank Engine. It's narrated by Ringo Starr. My son - wrongly may I add - has taken to yelling "that sounds like Daddy talking!" You may have heard me muttering away on a video or two. I don't sound like Ringo. In fact if we applied basic scientific testing in auditory differentiation I probably sound more like cheesecake than Ringo. So obviously this claim by my son led me to feel that perhaps his mental development has gone awry.
But that's obviously not the case. He's taken up some of the main pillars of his parent's intellectual makeup. From me he's inherited music, the healthy suspicion of the garbage men and a talent for letters. Take the following phenomenal display of writing. I'm not claiming I have that talent. But his knack for incoherent madness is clearly inherited. He told me he was writing a story and then rushed it out. It's amazing.
Way ahead of his time, obviously. And he didn't stop there. He picked up his pen and wrote the sequel immediately.Which was not just a by-numbers follow up either. No - it was a two-part companion monster-novel that pushes the boundaries of what we know as literary art.
Then - bored of the written word he immediately plunged his efforts into his true love - trains. Now he can put the track together now. Which has come as a relief to the annoyance of having to rebuild the thing every 90 seconds because he's wriggled all over whilst playing. But it tended to be a long, meandering snake thing that didn't connect and often went under furniture that you couldn't actually get a toy train under. And then a few days ago he seemed to understand the entire principle of it all. At some point I refused to help put a bridge back together because the entire point of his game was that it falls over. After 30 times that becomes absolutely boring. So he put one together. But not any old bridge. Oh no - this is no track goes up - connects - track goes down. It's some demented engineering advance the likes of which even Brunel couldn't even envisage. Seriously look at it -:
Yes that's right - THREE BRIDGES IN ONE! Complete with tunnel and - somehow - a forked bend in it. It was solid as a rock as well. It got put away with my naively thinking I could recreate it. I even have this frikking photo of it and I can't get it to stay together. He's achieved a whole other-worldliness of structural engineering that I'm too mentally feeble to replicate. He's blurring the lines, Man.
Of course all of that was put wholly in it's place when he started claiming that "Mr. Winkie" had a dream about oatmeal. Which doesn't gave the impression that he's thinking on a different plain. It makes it seem like he's Hunter S. Thompson. And his sister is very clearly Dr. Gonzo. What else explains why they both had an actual dog tug-of-war battle over a plastic candy cane stuck in the ground out the front of the house?
I know - your eyes hurt from that diabolical 80s coat. Don't worry though - he's taken that "look" to a new level. Apart from the Chav-riddled tracksuit bottoms that he likes to wear he also has been parading about the house this morning in this cheesey Santa sweatshirt. And it's just a vicious rumor that those are girl's jeans (they are though...).
Oh - and the title of this entry is based on the Bacon, potato, cheese and egg fritatta I made for dinner last night that nobody ate. But this morning my son ate half a 9 by 9 pan of. He must like it because right now he's pretending that his trains are crashing off the pathetic bridge track that I built for him and are landing in it and screaming, "Oh no! Bapocheeg!"