Today, this day, Saturn’s Day lending its etymological origin to the first day revelled in when week’s end is finally reached, and, whilst inhaling the veritable culinary high noon  repast placed before me by the spectacular vision of femininity that is both the better half of my marital relationship, and the mother to my wee beasties, a flicker of inspiration flashed from left to right within  the vacant lot that lurks apathetically between my ears. Noting this nigh unheard of occurrence, I took stock of myself, my inner monologue ran thus.

“Oi, self!” said I to me. “Yon sprouted blog related drivel harks from a past long gone, where’st be the tale of today?”

Perplexed at such questioning, a fever crossed my hairy brow at the relativity, nay, the incongruity of such a pitch. ’twas then a geas, a powerful geas at that, was placed upon this cider soaked infidel, sworn to Ad Nausea the mighty Oh God of Hangovers, that I was to never walk the hallowed boards within the sacred halls of the Temple Of The Club until my geas was fulfilled.  Further confusion ensnaring all that was good, pondering wild eyed and terror filled, at my hapless ignorance spawned illiteracy, deducing after a figurative eon that a ‘geas’ was a binding, an oath, and not the terror of my childhood, the bloody geese my Grandma kept. Enlightened, my journey began, beneath is a tale of deviousness and cunning, an incident of evil, a yarn of love, lust and seduction; a remembered reality so very foul as to make your skin crawl! This woebegotten story occurred beneath this very roof some two or three years past.

 

Read on ye of impeccable taste specific to the written word.

 

 

AFC, 3, “Dad, I just saw your willy.”

I was in the shower at the time. “that’s good AFC.” says I. 15 second contemplative interlude. “Dad. I’ve got a willy.” “Good AFC”. A silence filled minute passes, and a toothbrush now fills my hand.

“Dad, is Seven 45 (the cat) a boy?”

“gargle spit. Yesh AFC. Sheven 45 ish a boy. Spit, spit.”

Child leaves bathroom, and I employ a mildly damp towel, cursing myself for not having the foresight to have bought a fresh one with me earlier.

Silence within the house, the absence of noise causing an arousal of suspicion, cocking my head, noting the peculiarity. Towel around my waist, mimicking Leichardt I move toward the lounge room, I encounter hushed voices escaping from a couch. Further investigation allows me to see two sets of feet extending from behind said recreational device. I spy a tail. A tail whipping side to side, oddly matching that of said intrepid cat “Seven 45”; hushed voices in deep discussion.

Three faces gaze up at me. Two questioning, one fur covered, in either the clutches of mild terror, or by appearance at least, portraying a face in the throws of constipation.

ADC, 18 months old and all man. “Dad, dad, dad”

AFC and sticky one and a half year old partner in crime, utilising gravity to the full, laying not unkindly, but fully upon said feline beastie.

“Dad. I can’t find his willy, and you said he had one!!”

Children lifted, cat breaks sound barrier, father steps on cunningly placed pointed toy of pain and misery, trips, curses, loses towel (damper), lands in cursing and untidy heap.

“See ADC, that’s where Dads willy is. Lets get puss again and have another look.” Children running, father cursing. Cat escapes intact. Willy yet to be found.

 

My geas is fulfilled! Free at last, free at last, free at last!

 

I published this elsewhere a while ago; click the pirate picture up yonder, you’ll find ‘the sound of a switch blade and a motorbike…………………..’

 

 

N. xxx

 

 

 

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