Man in his Pyjamas A collection of comedy writing, poetry and Asperger Syndrome.

Panic and a painted a penis

Emailed – 15.09.14

It’s 8.43 am on Sunday morning and I am happy. I am a fan of Sunday morning. I am ready for Andrew Marr. I am well fed. But I am unnerved. I have not written this week’s newsletter. Well I have, but then I decided it was going to be a blog because it got quite lengthy. So I’ve tweaked it and am posting it in a couple of hours time…..

Here it is, if you missed it yesterday. Perhaps you were busy?  I understand. Maybe you had a prior engagement? No problem. Or, and this is just a stab in the dark, maybe you were drinking wine and eating bacon and beans in the pub for breakfast, as a precursor to the football?  God only knows what you get up to….Anyhoo – here is it…..

Having children

If truth be told I am genuinely worried. I feel the stress of failure. My wife tells me – it’s only a newsletter, I’m sure people won’t mind. She suggest I just: write a couple of lines to explain and send that?

I look at her blankly and then introduce myself.

Hello, I’m the OCD guy that you’ve lived with for the past 10 years? The chap you have skilfully learned to work around. To placate. The guy that scored  30+ on the Autistic Spectrum test we did. Twice. Your husband? Remember? The man who exists solely for routine and timetables and ‘perfect’.

If it ain’t perfect – what’s the point? Just shoot yourself in your useless face and be done with it.

A smudgy mirror is the beginning of the end.

I can’t NOT send a newsletter. Are you insane? Crikey-on-a-bikey. Then what? Stop washing? Wear my undies on the outside? Start turning up to work drunk? Maybe I should punch a Policeman and bet all my money on a horse? Maybe I’ll just stop getting up? Or better still, I’ll take up crack?

GET A GRIP.

My world needs to turn the same way everyday. I find the motion comforting. I don’t like change. Afford me the pleasure of deceiving myself that I have at least SOME control. I am a creature of habit. A creature terrified of failure….

Ok – vaguely newsy things…..cobbled together lovingly, but at the last minute.

My wife went out this morning with my children to buy Nuncle a house warming gift. We are his first official dinner guests. I have ironed my shirt. This is serious shizzle. He’s cooking Sunday dinner. I am very excited and have been looking forward to it all week.

The wife and kids came back about an hour ago with a bottle of Fizz, a picture frame and a fake poo and two fake flies. Seriously. They are currently wrapping pretend poo and two individual flies in the kitchen. Surely my wife’s fine motor dexterity is wasted wrapping fake flies. Who does that? This is weird right? Nuncle will love it.  That’s weird right?  My wife is in hysterics. She’s weird right? Yeah she’s weird, I know that.

Fast forward a couple of hours and it turns out that Nuncle is not a huge fan of poo. The children had mischievously placed it on his kitchen floor, when no-one was looking. Sneaky b*stards. Little evil genuises and they’re only 4 and 2.

Nuncle they shouted – LOOK! Nuncle came in and looked visibly repulsed by the sight of a massive pile of poop on his newly tiled kitchen floor.  The wife and I played along to keep the kids happy, and thought that Nuncle was too. We all grimaced and groaned. Oh no – that’s disgusting  we all said.

Turns out Nuncle actually thought it was a big poo. I thought he was just acting. He’s a good actor you know. He’s on the telly everyday.. I figured he was just putting in some overtime to amuse the kids. Busman’s holiday and all that. But no, apparently not. He’d left the back door open all morning and thought a big dog must have wandered in and gone to town. Or maybe he’d upset the neighbours.

I’m not sure exactly when Nuncle realised we were joking, and we realised he wasn’t? I think it may have been when my daughter bent down, picked it up, and put it on her head? Or maybe it was when my son snatched it off her and they started fighting over it. Pulling it back and forth like a dirty tug-of-war. It was probably then that he realised something was amiss.

I am worried now though. I am picturing the  – what did you do at the weekend children  –  talk that my son will take part in tomorrow, on just his second week in Reception?

Miss: What did you do Ike?

Ike: I wrapped up a poo for Nuncle.

What will his teacher think?  God only knows.

Last week he tried to expedite a self-portrait painting session, to get back to the Lego, by painting himself nude. I am not joking. He would later tell me that if he was nudey, he wouldn’t have to waste time painting his clothes. He was perplexed that his teacher had insisted that he, at the very least, paint himself a pair of underpants.

I dare not ask if he gave himself a penis. In my head he painted himself as an asexual stick man, not a midget with a ferocious pink schlong. But I am not prepared to pose the question. If he did allude to a paint-it-by-numbers penis, I hope he did the family proud. I hope he got up to a big number…..

My wife tells me she just laughed when his teacher told him what had happened.  The school probably think we are nudists now?  Parents that encourage real-life nude drawing of their children. Sure depict your privates in paint? Perhaps a sculpture of your scrotum in clay? A charcoal rubbing of your nipples?

So that’s news I guess. My son suggesting artistically that his parents are perverts? Phew; and there was me worrying I would have nothing to tell you. Thank heavens for small mercies huh? Sorry big mercies. Thank heavens for big mercies. Well hung mercies….

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