Why don't you grow up?

I warned you several posts ago, and quite overtly so in the last one, that this was likely to get mawkish; and self-indulgently so. That it would be o'er-run with graphite stuff at some not-too-distant point.

So here's some more. Turn your head away if you don't like it. It's okay, I won't mind. But then it's kind of, you know, meant for others to read, anyway.

42 days remain until the proposed teleport completion date of the graphite. Being a lazy graph, I felt no need to look beyond the worn cliché that number now represents and to think very much, so - in some trite and tedious meaning of life type bollocks - I've asked Mrs Graph and Steppy II what they would want the new person to be or become throughout life.

What do you definitely want him/her to be, what are you indifferent about them being, and what do you definitely not want them to be?

I guess it's a kind of friend identi-kit. Some stuff you really like people for; some stuff you aren't bothered about one way or the other in people; and things you'd really prefer to avoid - the stuff that would largely put you off people.

So here are our answers.

"I would want graphite to be..."

Me: Passionate, Creative, Progressive, Articulate

Mrs Graph: Adventurous, Courageous, Musical, Considerate

Steppy II: Sporty, Fun, Quite Loud, Funny

"I'm not bothered if graphite is..."

Me: Gay or straight, in any particular job, scientifically minded, very bookish

Mrs Graph: Tall or short, Academic, Male or female, Artistic

Steppy II: Ginger, A football supporter or not, Nerdy, Someone who likes fish & chips

"I would not want graphite to be..."

Me: Scared, A Tory, lonely, Unduly Lazy

Mrs Graph: Shy, materialistic, Vain, A Fussy eater

Steppy II: Veggie/Vegan, Boring, A Golfer, A soap opera fan

So there. Be warned, graphite. This is demanding stuff.

Actually it's 41 days, but that wouldn't sit well with the thing, would it now?

17.8571429%

Or 50 days.

This is the amount of teleport time left for graphite fully to beam through as I have explained here.

Mrs Graph and I have therefore indulged ourselves in a piece of self-indulgent nonsense so self-indulgent as to put you off your cornflakes (or any other food stuff you might be considering consuming).

Be warned; what follows is cloyingly sugary and (in case I haven't already said so - which I have) self-indulgent.

In recognition of the 50 day ETA of the alien graphite, we have drawn up a (little considered) set of 50 reasons for it to be pleased to have reached planet earth. It is not exhaustive by any means; it's just the first 50 things we thought of, okay? And it's almost certainly Eurocentric. It's just stuff we like, off the top of our heads...

Puddles; Homemade cakes; The Antiques Roadshow; Swimming in the sea; Tickling; Doctor Who; Hedgehogs; All Music; grandparents; Me; Match of the Day; Cheese sandwiches; Bicycles; Having friends; Beer; Weekends; Sunshine; Fishfingers; Trees; Books; Cinema; Doggies; Ice cream (vans); Chip shops; Art galleries; Looking out of the aeroplane window; The Guardian; Cosy fires; Camping; Blankets; Sunday morning breakfasts; Roast dinner; Granny's moussaka; Falling asleep on the beach; Curry; The noise of seagulls; Homemade soup; Staying up all night; Jigsaw puzzles; Toast; Old, damp building smells; All people (are brilliant); Rome; Laughing; Italian food; Getting home; Dog Sledding; Wine; Words; Singing.

And if you don't like it, make up your own!

Funny thing, instinct. It looks exactly like guesswork

Anyway, at the moment we(e) realised that what we had been calling "the project" had (cough) successfully launched (cough) we both had an immediate, instinctive idea that we would be expecting a hegraph.

Dunno why. Just did.

This was strange as I have always been convinced before, that were I ever to be graph to a graphite it would be a shegraph.

So much so that I have discussed with Mrs Graph my reluctance to indulge in those awful undermining behaviours that seem to accompany so much girl-raising currently. Pink clothing, not as an option but as a constant. Nothing but stereo-typical girl toys and dolls, bland Disney songs, Bratz, faux-Yank accents brought on by those sickly twins and worst of all the bloody "Princess on Board" signs.

I fucking hate those.

"If I ever have a daughter", I announced one day, after Mrs Graph parked the car next to one, "I'll want a 'Future Labour Leader On Board' sign", I declared.

"How about just not having a sign", she replied.

Marathon bar...

Anyway, my mother - grand-graph as it were - was told about graphite quite early. It was one of those moments where only the words "besides herself" properly explain her reaction.

We didn't tell anyone else for weeks after that. Mrs Graph thought we should wait until after she'd run her marathon.

She thought people would fret.

graphite

Well.

Here's a thing. Mrs Graph is with graphite.

Yay!

We have known this for about eight weeks. This is terrific. Terrific. I am still shocked. I mean, not because it's a surprise. It isn't. It was planned and a deliberate decision and all that. But because, well.... fucking hell!!

At this moment graphite is apparently the size of a plum; about twelve weeks. Mrs Graph peed on a stick several weeks ago. It was supposed to take three minutes to give a result. She hadn't even finished the peeing when a cry came from the other side of the bathroom door, "I haven't finished yet and it's already told me the result!"

Me - "Really!? What is it?"

Idiot.