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?

Mistaken identity

Over Xmas some fool bought Mrs Graph a game called 'Identity', a most brilliant idea for making sure you have completely absorbed the marketing shite slung at you by capitalism from the cradle to the grave.

It's a board game in which you throw dice and move from beginning to end, with movement prevented or encouraged at various points through the introduction of a task; that being to identify the logo of some 'brand' or other from the version presented on a card, which has either had the name removed from the graphic, or is merely a fragment of the actual, full thing.

Anyway, on Xmas evening we were playing in teams of three; young people (Steppy, Steppy II and niece), middle-aged people (Mrs Graph, Mrs Graph's sister and Mrs Graph's sister's husband) and very old people (Mrs Graph's mother and father and, erm... me).

The young people were guessing. Unusually - as they seem to have been most readily brainwashed by the marketing profession (and were accordingly winning by some way) - they were struggling. What they had to go at was an 'x' with a small pinkish paw print above it, to the upper left. A fragment of a larger logo.

It was the logo for the catfood, 'felix'.

But they did not know that. Although at this point only Steppy and niece were in the room guessing.

Steppy II had been to the toilet.

But he came back and with all the swagger that a 12 year-old boy can muster he looked at Steppy and niece as if they were completely empty-headed numpties and he bellowed,

"I know! I know!

"It's Petsex!! Petsex!!"

He may never be allowed to forget that.

Once we've stopped pissing ourselves laughing.

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.

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.

Pulp friction

The other evening I explained to Mrs Graph that I had had, that morning, a very brief dream before being woken by the alarm on my phone. In the dream I was standing at a grand piano, and about to sing a duet with the pianist, who just happened to be the uber-cool former frontman of Britpop sensations Pulp.

In return for this revelation I was mocked mercilessly. Ridiculed isn't too strong a word. So intense was the drive for humiliation that the Steppy - home on her break from University - was brought through to the room to join in.

Now, I can accept that maybe it wasn't a cool dream; but I don't make them happen like that, any more than most other people do. Pah.

Worse though is that the very next morning, Mrs Graph decided to share with me her own dream of the night just passed.

"I was at a swimming pool. And it had a really nice lounge area. And I was wandering around the lounge when I saw someone I knew in the dream; so I sat down and had a really nice long chat with him. Guess what! It was Ronnie Corbett!"

How the hell does that work then?

Red facedbook

Steppy II has become a user of the Social Network phenomenon that is facebook. He's been on it for about a week and a half, and at last count had 86 "friends." For reasons that will become clear, we went through them this evening. There are about eight he doesn't actually know. There was one we have removed completely after a wee chat about the conversation we'd had last week in relation to the caution to be applied in the 'cyber'-world when one is only 11. The girl, who "looks about my age" and who approached him unilaterally, claiming to live in Washington DC has now gone.

An overreaction of ludicrous proportions; but a piece of theatre to make the point.

Anyway, the provocation for this little expedition around his facebook account came this evening after tea. One was looking at one's own facebook account, and the endless parade of status updates, when one espied a change in Steppy II's.

I showed it to Mrs Graph. "One knows not what to say!" quoth I.

"Too right, " she replied, with a slight smirk.

"Steppy II", I asked... "How was your day?"

"Good".

"Good? Wow. Why was it 'good'"?

"Well, you know. Fine".

Concerned to ask again, in case it nose-dived from 'good' to 'fine' to 'average' to 'poor' to 'fucking horrible! All right?' I changed the subject.

"What have you done since you got in?"

"Nothing".

"Nothing? What about homework"?

"Yeah. Homework".

"What about X Box"?

"Yeah. X Box".

"What about facebook"?

"No".

"No"?

"No".

"Are you sure"?

"Yeah"

"Are you totally sure"?

"Why"?

"Well, your facebook status changed 47 minutes ago".

"What!? Are you sure"?

"Yes. I'm looking at it".

"Well I didn't... What does it say"?

I glance at Mrs Graph. She shrugs.

"What does it say?"

"Erm... Have you given someone your password"?

"No."

"Well, I think you probably have, even if unintentionally"

"I have NOT! But why? What does it say"?

"It says... erm... 'I love willies'."

Net gains

Steppy II's maternal grandmother - Mrs Graph's Scottish mother - has always been supportive of Steppy II's aspirations to play for Manchester United; albeit that that is clearly morally wrong.

Today that support has extended to taking him shopping for a new pair of training shoes.

Whilst in the shops, along with Mrs Graph, a conversation was had about the decision of Steppy II's maternal grandmother's former neighbour's daughter - now aged 16 - to play netball for Scotland, qualifying through her own mother, also a Scottish woman.

Hell! That was a long and confusing sentence. I wonder how that happened.

Anyway, following the conversation about her choosing to play netball for Scotland, Steppy II's maternal grandmother said to him, "You could do that. I'm Scottish, so you could play for Scotland when you're older".

"But I'm rubbish at netball!" he protested.

Five A Day

Mrs Graph has just told me that, yesterday, she bought Steppy II some blueberries for his breakfast this morning.

He loves blueberries, she says.

Anyway, when she got home tonight she went to the fridge for something else.

"Why didn't you have the blueberries for your breakfast?" she asked him, having seen them apparently untouched. "You LOVE blueberries!"

"I did!" he protested. "I had three".

Bean to school

Steppy II looked up over his tea this evening and said, "You know butterbean pie?" "Yes", said Mrs Graph...

"What kind of beans does it have in it?"

Nuclear family; nuclear fishin'...

Mrs Graph called me into the garden this morning. She was astonished (as was I) to find that the goldfish we have had in our garden pond for three summers - there are four of them; three orange and one mottled black - have produced offspring. Very small as yet, but nonetheless very firmly in existence and jetting about looking for fish food.

Mrs Graph's sister and her daughter were also present, and as excited as Mrs Graph to discover the two wee newcomers. "We are parents!" exclaimed the delighted Mrs Graph.

"Maybe there are more", suggested sister.

"Oh, I think two's enough for anybody", said Mrs Graph.

You brought me to my niece

The younger steppy, the recently girlfriended Steppy II, has just returned from a 'PGL' holiday.

That's Parents Get Lost for those of our readers who are unaware.

And actually the getting lost part is reasonable easy, as the whole thing is based in the middle of some vast rural wasteland, miles from the nearest hint of a city (or civilisation as we must learn to call it).

His cousin, my niece, also went. It's the second time she's been. She is now eight.

On being picked up at the end of the week by Mrs Graph, the two climbed into the car.

The niece looked at her mother (Mrs Graph's sister) and - bearing in mind they hadn't seen each other for a full eight days - uttered the immortal words, "I was sick. But I swallowed it again."

Kiss my asthma

The younger steppy has a 'girlfriend'!

For an 11 year old this is quite something, I suspect.

Of course, he hasn't actually revealed this to anybody himself.

His wee pal Dominic has blabbed.

Apparently the 'girlfriend' concerned - Ellie - asked the steppy if he would go out with her.

He said he'd think about it.

Two days later he accepted.

Dominic told all of this to Mrs Graph when visiting the other evening. Heh heh.

Dominic was asked "What is this Ellie like then?"






He replied, "She has asthma".

Sticking point

We were swapping very poor old jokes over chicken and vegetable pie this evening. I went for the one about the man who goes into a bar with his giraffe, and begins buying rounds for the both of them, to the amazement of the bar staff. After eight pints the giraffe collapses in a heap on the floor. The man has two more pints and makes to leave. "Oi", yells the landlord gesturing towards the comatose animal, "you can't leave that lying there".

"It isn't a lion; it's a giraffe", says the man.

In the midst of this, the elder steppy proved once again what a towering intellect we have amongst us. "Here's an old one," said Mrs. Graph, "what's brown and sticky?" "Ooh, ooh. I, like, know this", yells elder steppy in order to prove she can actually remember something. "It's... it's... it's... a TWIG!!"

Words fail.




I thought it was the position of the Prime Minister...

Rocket launcher

It amazes me that people aren't aware of the link between motor racing and salad.

Only this evening I had to explain again to Mrs Graph (who had chided me for buying wild rocket rather than taking it from that bunch which she is growing in the garden) that wild rocket is not the same as domestic rocket. By definition; it's wild. Which means it has to be caught. And - as I would have assumed most right-thinking folk would have spotted from its name - it moves pretty bloody quickly!

Anyway, as a direct result of the extraordinary speed it exhibits in its native environment, we now have motor racing.

In the farming regions around Torino (called in English Turin, but actually more accurately translated as Tureen) it was regarded as the finest of leaves with which to flavour the locally produced soups - 'Zuppa Torino' identifying the local pot in which a variety of zuppe were concocted.

As demand for the zuppe grew, so too did the voracious requirement for greater and greater harvests of wild rocket (Rucola). The more that needed to be harvested, the fewer and further between seemed the 'Rocket Men' (Uomini Ruchetta) who were paid to capture the Eruca sativa.

One of those whose livelihood depended upon the successful chase was Ferrucio Lamborghini, born in 1876. His small farm, high in the hills of the Appenini at Renazzo, Cento, (ironically in the region of Ferrara) was insufficient to support his sizeable Catholic family. For that reason he began marauding further and further afield, reaching far west to the outskirts of Torino; netting wild rocket across that vast hinterland.

Greedy for the rewards the peppery brassica could bring, in 1891 (at the age of just 17) Ferrucio designed and built two rapid, narrow, single-seater vehicles equipped with a wide blade across the front for the sole purpose of hacking down the flying rocket plant. As he and his 15 year-old brother Miura raced across the Italian 'Steppi', the world was first introduced to the sport named later after the wild rocket itself, which was at that time so desired as to be referred to as"Principal in the Recipe" - in Italian 'Uno di Formule' - Formula One.

Wrongs in the keys of wife...

So last night, a Monday, the elder steppy stayed out until quite long gone 11. Upon returning home she discovered that the door had been locked (by her Ma) and that the keys had accidentally been left in it. This meant she couldn't get in. Ho hum.



Knocking on the door to attract attention is therefore required. Fortunately, I was awake and downstairs (probably writing some drivel about Jack Nance) and was able to let her in. However I pointed out quite gently that she might not be so lucky always and that it might not hurt to not be out until so late every night.

"I could jus', like, knock though. Derh".

"Well, yes, but my point is that people might be asleep and therefore.."

"But I could jus', like, knock?".

Ho hum.

I repeated this exchange (I have removed the word 'conversation' from this sentence because that really doesn't pass for conversation, does it?) to Mrs Graph this evening.

"Well, it was really my fault, as I left the key in the door".

"Well, sort of, but that's not actually the point..."

"No. The point is that I have to lock the door because I don't like it left unlocked and nobody else bothers."

Not only is this entirely untrue, but I have too to marvel at the way the steppy's antisocial behaviour became my fault in just two sentences.

That's genuinely amazing.