I can has skankburger?

The Mop has descended upon Warwickshire. It’s been turning up yearly since, umm, about Edward III’s time, so you’d think it wouldn’t take me by surprise any longer. But every year I tootle happily around the street corner – oblivious to the signs – and run right up against a carousel with those macabre and wild-eyed wooden horses on it. This is, of course, the yearly signal for the town’s youngsters to don their shortest mini skirts or finest knee-level-crotch jeans, and parade around our small town, checking out the visiting talent and braving the vomit-provoking rides – whilst the closure of the town centre and the plethora of spinning metal is a huge source of bemusement to the visiting tourists.

Whilst I do not wish to impugn the safety record of the Showman’s Guild, I am always struck by the fact that the guys operating the really terrifying rides generally resemble Cro-Magnon man. They do not inspire confidence in me. But I am a lily-livered coward regarding all fairground rides in any case, and am struck dumb with terror by even the smallest swingboat. I even dislike children’s swings. So, actually purchasing any vertigo this evening was never an issue, but we did have a stroll into town at 7.30pm with a small child – out on his first ever past-his-bedtime jolly. In fact, I can’t remember taking him out in the dark before. He was duly fascinated by the flashy illuminations, and gazed, slack-jawed, at the strobe lights. Happily, he appears not to be epileptic.

Although there was zero hope of anyone persuading me onto the smallest carousel, I was burning to spend some money, all the same. Even before we were within 100 yards of the fair, I could smell them. Ahhh! Skankburgers! Those delectable pancakes of dubious mince with a SUSPICIOUSLY ORANGE square of melting plastic cheese perched jauntily atop. And the onions, frying, sizzling, wafting… wafting, goddammit. I know from bitter times past just how the skankburger lust can take hold of me. I’d made preparations. I’d deliberately cooked an enormous meal of meatballs and spaghetti, and piggied the lot before setting foot near the fair. I told myself that I always feel ill after eating one. I told myself proudly that the scales had turned a round 14 stone this morning – nearly 13 something! Wahey! And yet… every burger van I passed belted out its nasal siren song of sizzling onions and frying grease. WAAAAAAAHHHHH! Want one! Want one NOW!

Hubby, bless him, hustled me unceremoniously past the lot, and back to the car before I could fall into skank-sin. And then, because he wanted one himself, proceeded to buy me a blasted Bounty bar when we stopped for milk. Which I ate. Bah! Still, I saved my cash. And good thing too, because I finally succumbed to a different type of lust today and ordered myself a proper (antipodean!) nappy changing bag, at hubby-horrifying cost. I have been toting a free black plastic pampers-job, and its dull (and now egg-mayo stained. Thank you, Harry.) tones do not add lustre to my day. So I have purchased this, and am rabidly awaiting delivery, whilst musing fretfully if I should have got it in mimosa or ochre.

Harry has had a busy couple of days. He was put to bed for the first time ever by Daddy, and only Daddy, last night. Mummy went out to the theatre at 6pm, having offered boob before departure, leaving the boys to cope with 7pm bedtime – sans boob. Harry had his bath and story-books as usual, before having a quick slurp of cow’s milk out of his sippy-cup in the boob-chair. Upon being placed in his cot and having his mobile twirled, he immediately turned over and went straight to sleep. My God! SCORE! I am no longer a prisoner to his boob-habit! I am free of him!! FRRREEEEEEEEE!!!1!! Ah… ahem. Let me think of something to tell you – quickly! – that shows you just how much I LOVE MY CHILD! Cough. Free. Yes. Wahey.

Harry had yet another first-ever this morning – we took a rowing boat out for an hour to have a closer look at the RSC building work and enjoy the glorious sunshine. I managed to endanger a local rowing crew, as it appears that I was supposed to be providing propulsion AND steering. John was too busy holding an utterly torpid child to pull on a steering rope, apparently. As you can see, Harry is regarding my oar (shipped! shipped oar! I’m not that nautically incompetent! Although, why rowlocks don’t have tops to ’em is beyond me. And the fact that I’m using ‘nautically’ in the context of rowing the River Avon probably tells its own story.) with sleepy suspicion

before it all became too much for him.

A sleeping child. My very favourite kind.

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10 Responses

  1. You know what’s even better than ONE sleeping child?

    Two 🙂

    Ha. I can dream!

    J

  2. Your response to skank burger sounds just like my response to nearly all fast food. I know it will make me feel ill, but it doesn’t stop me from salivating everytime I go near a place selling them!

  3. Ahhhh skankburgers. Good on you for avoiding their siren like draw. And being free from the boob-chain sounds great too!

  4. I had to give up being a vegetarian because I could not walk past that great Australian staple, the barbeque Safeway sausage in white bread with tomato sauce. Still can’t.

  5. And I want that sleeping baby. Want him now! Just for a quick cuddle you understand. Am not wierd internet person, well, not much anyway.

  6. I hope you were seeing David Tennant in Hamlet, and will give full details. My mum lives nearby and saw him and I am Very Jealous.

  7. I would pay large sums of money to get my children to pass clean out like yours did.

    Also, you chose wisely on the bag. It is muy-envy inducing. Am glad you didn’t get the mimosa though, that looks like what comes out of the other end of a gastroenteritic child. I’m just saying.

  8. Oooooh, I can smell the skank burgers now……or those horrid hot dogs that they used to sell from stands in Dublin at 4am when we were falling out of the nightclub. I wouldn’t touch them with a barge poll when I’m sober, but after a tankful they’re like mana from heaven!

  9. I have an OiOi bag too, though it’s not as lovely as that one!

    Hey wait – I thought you had to make an…exchange in order to partake of the skankburger? So said your Twit!

  10. Free of the skankburger, free of the boob-bondage (and doesn’t THAT sound kinky?) AND a sleeping child! Life is just coming up roses for you!

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