Mating rituals of the young and stupid

"I was there ... and this bird said 'you're fit' ... and I said 'sorry, I ain't got time."

This recitation by one young man to another, both dressed in those preposterous yellow jackets worn by rail side and other manual workers, was overheard this morning.

Only last night Bolshie Book Worm and I had an exchange on the very subject of very young men referring to girls their age as 'birds' and whether we should laugh or cry (we decided on balance we'd rather be amused).

What gave rise to it was news that The Big Banana has been dumped after two years by his tiny little girlfriend, but things are looking up as he has a date (with 'a new bird') tonight (Thursday) ... in celebration of which event he was off to' Get Drunk'. He's sixteen years old, his father works in a civilian capacity for the police, and neither of us said anything about the advisability or legality of the proposed course of action.

Guilty by default.

It is all of a piece with the Maltese Terrier who fresh from her shagging back home is getting it from her friend, an 'enormous' fireman who is in an unhappy marriage. 'Her' man spends the night with her occasionally. This is under the roof she shares with her two teenage children, one of whom intends to become a police officer herself. This is the same woman who takes her kids out drinking knowing full well the law and who in her day job haranguing the staff she supervises about the law on selling alcohol to the underage or knowingly to those intending to supply.

This is a woman who has anecdotes to share about sharing a spliff with her brother and a teenage cousin of theirs, and being panic stricken when said cousin's police officer girlfriend turns up - said police officer being concerned only that she doesn't inhale enough to fail a random drugs test to which she might be subjected. Again, all under the same roof as her teenage children.

Wonder how they're likely to turn out?

So, What else is new

We're back at school and dreaming of getting the offspring into a grammar school. That's the best we can hope for now. I grammar school. It isn't quite what I'd imagined but then I had such a sheltered existence until I met you. Before then I had no idea such people existed. In the world I was raised in people were flawed but had standards and self awareness, ambition (or aspiration if that's more comfortable) and energy, hope and faith.

What have you got. A mother who's taking her time to die and leave you the pile? What will you do then? Squander it as you've squandered every other opportunity and slice of good fortune that's come your way. You've only got 18 years to spend it all too, before the state is obliged to take you on and support you as the rest of the world has effectively done so far.

You are a monster.

Grand Wormwood Scrubbers

Dear Paul,

Your schtick has been wearing thinner with each passing day. You are no longer a charming or entertaining or impressive novelty. You're not half as bright or as well educated as you've been allowed to believe.

I'm neither impressed nor amused by your velvet smoking jacket and frankly your hand wafting and lack of volume control or 'off' switch set my teeth on edge.

Thank God you're fucking off to your glorified poly and your rubbish studies: take your absinthe rituals with you, puppy.

Yours truly,

Henny

A proper lack of backbone?

The boys are all hormonally boisterous. The girls are few and far between. One of them is a little blonde, who if she were fairer would be likened by many to a China Doll. She just has that vulnerable, fragile edge to her petiteness.

I have to confess to being taken aback at being address by her within hours of us being introduced as 'Luv' and 'Luvely'. She sixteen and I'm an awful lot older. I was affronted and in a manner my mother would have admired (at least until she realised it was me doing it) I took umbrage.

It hardly helped her cause that she seemed to expect us to pay her without actually doing any work. Hmm.

Then she discovered the Joy of Gizmo. She saw me with Gizmo and wanted to muscle in, not understanding that I'd grown weary of Gizmo's limited charms. She expressed interest in an only moderately pushy manner. I initiated her into the Secret of Gizmo and left her to it. She redeemed herself mightily and is now the Mistress of Gizmo.

Gizmo is a hand held battery powered device, as you've probably gathered. Gather in your filthy mind, dear reader, before it gallops away over the hills and is far away and out of sight.

Gizmo is a hand held terminal that enables us to perform various stock and merchandising related tasks out on the shop floor. But damn it, she likes it. She's welcome to the wretched thing with its RSI-inducing propensity.

Any hoo, she turned up today looking rather wretched and I initial took it to be the result of more Boyfriend Problems. In fact this evening prior to setting out to work she asked her mother's permission to use the family kitchen and was told "No" and to get out instead. She was slung out without food or work clothes or means of transport to work.

She walked the few miles from the outlying village into town, stopped off at a friend's house to borrow her uniform and came into work with them on and a pair of the friend's much too large regulation black shoes. She'll camp out at her friend's house, borrow a change of underwear and come in tomorrow wearing a spare uniform shirt we've dug out for her. We've waived the requirement that she wear black shoes and let her work in her trainers until her mother notices her absence, when ever that might happen.

There's always someone worse off than you, and a lot of people worse off than me.

Good night.

Trouser down moment

Last year his mother sent her away for a week, with his connivance and against my wishes. This was great as the stress caused me to lose the very best part of a stone in weight, and most of that I'd wanted to lose.

I swore blind I'd not let him do it again. I was aware that the same activity company were mailing us with this year's range of offerings. I was aware that he'd not Asked me if I'd Mind her going away for a week. I told her, when she let slip she'd like to go that she wouldn't be going if I wasn't given the courtesy of Prior Consultation.

He got the message and asked if I'd mind her going. He made a great play of contacting about available weeks.

Then last night he let slip that since the price of the week she wants to go on has been reduced "mum will only have to find another £50". This shows that he still hasn't sufficient self-respect to stand on his own two feet when it comes to raising his child but instead quite happily sponges off an eighty something year old widow so that he doesn't have to curtail the alcohol, nicotine and junk food consumpton rates chez nous.

Oh dear.

It also shows that the great show of consultation was just smoke and mirrors and he is still a gutless, conniving Bastard.