So #1 is a big fella now. He’s loving his new school (‘some of them big lads have moustaches, Ma!’), has mastered the art of actually being on time at the bus stop (after a couple of ‘oh shit’ moments when the bus sailed past him as he wandered out of the sweet shop) and now has serious amounts of homework. To be frank (it’s okay, you get to be Frank next time), he was getting increasingly frustrated having to do his homework on the kitchen table while various conversations/arguments/loud tv programmes/recipe testing involving food processing/silly buggering about-type stuff was going on around him. Distracting, I agree. So me and the Hubby visited our local DIY store, and bought him a desk. And yes okay, I admit, it’s not the prettiest desk in the world, and yes, it’s a flat-packed melamine job, but hey, we’re skint. Sorry. That’s life. Two hours of disgustingly navvy-like swearing from Hubby later and the desk was up. And actually, it’s really not that bad.
Anyhoo, I digress. So a good week or two later, and the desk is still immaculate. Everything is still in its original place. There’s not a pen or a piece of paper out of place. While mine, on the other hand, looks like the aftermath of a rather large explosion inside a branch of Office World. I can’t help it, my natural instinct is seriously messy.
So my question is: how come the child doesn’t have the messy gene? He often comes into our bedroom, where (there’s no way of saying this nicely) there are pairs of pants strewn all over the floor, and the bed is only ever made when the sheets are changed, tuts sadly and walks back out. The Professor is a neat freak; a clever, mathematically amazing, novel-devouring, neat freak. Plus, he knows the difference between a simile and a metaphor, can name the entire Liverpool team (including subs), slay the cleverest smarty-pants with a devastating, razor-sharp comeback, and even the dog daren’t ruffle his sheets. I demand a DNA test.