An evening of attempted murder and mime.

I am a vegetarian and a self-styled trainee Buddhist.  I engage in regular meditation sessions and aim to lead a positive and peaceful life. Wherever possible, I wish not to cause suffering. However that said, if you get in the way of my children falling asleep I will try to kill you. Eventually. Then I’ll forgive you and wish you well.

Perhaps I should have made this statement public to the fly-world before the events of yesterday evening took place…..

Boy: (points to ceiling)

Me: (looks at ceiling) What?

Boy: (points to ceiling)

Me: (looks at ceiling) WHAT?

Boy: zzzzzzz

Me: (clueless) 

After an infuriating game of two year old charades (One word, two syllables, first syllable – adop, second syllable – shun) it transpired that there was allegedly a fly at large in the bedroom of the boy who was refusing to sleep.

To cut a long story short, I visited the boy’s room in total, five times.

On the first visit, after toddler led ‘Give Us a Clue’, I informed the boy that he must be mistaken, and that there was definitely not a fly in his room because flies go to fly-bed at 6pm and it was now (checks watch) 7.05pm and therefore there could not possibly be a fly because all the flies are fast asleep, ok, love you, night night.

On the second visit I waved my arms around half heartedly, said ‘Okay goodbye Mr Fly’ made ushering towards the door actions, said ‘goodbye’ in a fly-voice, kissed the boy goodnight and left with fingers crossed.

(Mr. Fly still had not put in an appearance at this point and at this point I was not sure he ever would put in an appearance because at this point I was of the opinion that THERE IS NO BLOODY FLY)

On my third visit, Mr Fly and I met. We had a moment. A moment when the cheeky ****** tried to fly into my ear-hole and I jumped around banging the side of my own head like a lunatic. I took a deep breath. I took another deep breath, counted to ten and suppressed expletives. I suppressed more expletives and politely asked my son to stop laughing at my ‘there’s a fly in my brain dance’. I called upon my Vegetarian/Buddhist leanings and focussed on my set-a-good-example-and-teach-the-boy-something-important ethos, and as I opened the window and attempted to ethically waft Mr. Fly towards freedom using a two metre stuffed toy crocodile, I explained my rationale.

Me: Daddy doesn’t want to hurt Mr. Fly. Life is life son. Life is precious.

Boy: Huh?

On my fourth visit, I stood around looking and listening for a fly that I could clearly hear and see but pretended I could not because I wanted a certain person to think that Mr. Fly had flown out of the window on visit three.

On the fifth visit I crashed around the room like a ****** man possessed using a toy crocodile as an offensive weapon. This time I did not suppress my expletives I celebrated them, not verbally you understand but in very, very vigorous swipes of a crocodiles tail. My rampage at one point took on a gymnastic tone as I stood upon a small red table with wheels that unexpectedly, as a result of one particularly impressive swing of the crocodile, wheeled itself across the wooden floor with me on top. This requiring an impromptu balletic leap and one footed landing, in a bid not to end up on the next series of ‘Curious and Unusual Deaths’. Throughout (and possibly as a result of my ballet routine) my son had by now given up on any notion of sleep and was perched on the end of his bed like Joaquin Phoenix in Gladiator, awaiting the moment he could lick-his-lips and give the thumbs-down.

At this point I was relieved of my duties, chastised and sent downstairs. I spent the rest of the evening alone. As punishment.

Punishment……alone downstairs…… in the quiet……watching TV…….On my own……..

I know not of what happened to Mr. Fly,  however wherever he is, I’d like to shake his hand.

©2012 Man in his pyjamas. All rights reserved.


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