Chaos Theory: The branch of mathematics that deals with complex systems whose behaviour is highly sensitive to slight changes in conditions, so that small alterations can give rise to strikingly great consequences
*A conversation in April on a warm sunny day. A day without a hint of rain. Ironically*.
Me: Hi can you come around and have a look at my roof?
Him: Sure. What’s up with it?
Me: Nothing major – just a couple of slipped tiles need re-fixing.
Fast forward a couple of months and I am writing this post while residing in a house made up entirely of dust. I am, right now, thousands of pounds into a loft conversion with thousands of more pounds to go.
I do NOT know how that happened? Well I do. The same way I ended up married with two children, a cat, four chickens en-route and working 60 hour weeks to pay for it all. I fell in love. SUPER. (With my wife not the roofer. The roofer is handsome and all. Just too hairy for my tastes).
Chaos theory in practise
Everything is everywhere. EVERYWHERE. The house is the very antithesis of the modern day baby proofed abode. Ladders span corridors, internal roofs drop lathe and plaster bombs without a hint of warning and the top of the house is open to the elements…..
Not all of the elements mind you. Most of the elements have ****** off on holiday, leaving driving rain and unseasonally aggressive winds at the helm. The last time I dared to look-up from the outside, there were four men re-enacting a Fishermen’s Friend advert on top of my house. Clinging to the bare rafters in the eye of the storm, all for the love of the job. Brr-rain, heart and courage. There really is no place like home at the moment.
As a result (of the loft conversion not the rain) my underpants and sock draw now reside next to the front door. On the inside. And temporarily I hasten to add. File that under ‘w’ for weird. Or maybe ‘c’ for convenience. Depends if your glass is half full?
Don’t pooh-pooh the Chaos Theory.
I guess if I were to pooh my pants whilst answering the door to the postman, I would be ideally placed to rectify the situation with the minimum of fuss. You can’t buy that kind of convenience. Well you can, but I gather it’s rather specialist. (I wanted to write ‘rectify my rectum’ in that last paragraph but my wife wouldn’t let me)
I suppose it would be the ideal way to discourage unsolicited charity callers.
‘Not only do I not want to sponsor a ********* donkey, if you do not leave RIGHT now I will soil myself in a dirty protest of your presence. Don’t test me lady. I’ll do this thing. My spare pants are RIGHT here by the door. It’s no good looking terrified missy. Just take the photograph of your bald ass and leave. HEE-OR ELSE!’
In other news my wife is now forced to sleep in the children’s room on a green blow up mattress with a slow puncture. Luckily the air leak is a timely one and takes approximately 4 hours to slowly deflate to a level rendering the mattress no more than a floor rug.
Conveniently for Wifey the children don’t sleep for more than 4 hours at a time, enabling her the time and space to break out the foot pump every time she has to get up to breastfeed. Things just always work out for some people huh?
Don’t pee-pee the Chaos Theory.
In related news, my son is currently learning to sleep without a nappy. Or more accurately learning not to slash the night away sans protection. He has made some progress in this area I am pleased to say. His initial modus operandi was to not wake up enough to go to the toilet, but to wake up just enough to slink down on to his mother’s blow up (by the side of his bed) just in time to pee all over her.
(I have to applaud that kind of self-serving ingenuity. Applaud from downstairs that is. In the dry. If he did that in my bed I’d adopt the little pervert first thing in the morning).
However things are moving forward. He has progressed now to wetting just his own bed, in a bid one can only assume to appease Santa, who has become our number one bargaining chip. Him and fostering.
SO, timing is very much of the essence for WIfey as she effectively sleeps on a lilo, downstream from Master P. Pants. A lilo that becomes less effective (in terms of buoyancy) by the hour. The pressure is now on for us the determine the correct amount of liquid we can allow our son to consume during the day, to ensure in the wee small hours that my wife does not drown, or drift out to sea on a beautiful pee green float.
I of course sleep in the lounge on the fold out sofa bed, well out of the way, with all of my clothes in bin bags, a dismantled wardrobe, an upturned bed and mattress, a filling cabinet, 2 bed side tables and the rest of the bits and bobs from the upstairs, which are now sandwiched into the downstairs.
My very expensive orthopaedic mattress must stand upright in the corner by the TV goading me, as there is not enough floor space to lay it flat. The only way to create enough floor space to lay it flat, would be to take all of the downstairs furniture upstairs (!) Or to build an extension (!!). So I am forced to lay on the crappy sofa bed I bought to discourage people from staying over at my house, whilst staring longing at my mattress until I fall asleep or pass out through back pain and dust inhalation.
My front room looks as though Ikea took some bad acid and puked up in there. If you were to see me in situ, you would be forgiven for assuming I was auditioning for the next series of The hoarder next door. Indeed, once the water is turned off to install the en-suite, I will probably be circled by a collection of jam jars full of urine. My own urine I hasten to add. I’m not weird. I may come to resemble the final scenes from the film Signs. If you come to see me for yourself, please do NOT ‘Swing away’ – that’s not water, it’s festering wazz.
In fact if it goes on much longer I may just stop getting up. What’s the ***** point? Years from now I will be on the local news being craned out of my house via the dismantled dormer I am currently having mantled, to have my bespoke gastric band fitted. I’ll have stopped working by this point, in every sense of the word, and will rely exclusively on a team of staff whose sole purpose it will be to clean beneath my flaps. I would be lost without them as my wife and children will have left years ago. Tired of the weirdness. Tired of the complications. Tired of being the butt of jokes on a blog written by a man who increasingly should not be allowed to mix with others.
This seems a good time to stop and go and celebrate Father’s Day. If you too are a dad, I feel your pain bro.
Peace.©2013 Man in his pyjamas. All rights reserved. www.maninhispyjamas.com