Short Story Challenge - number 7 . . . for the mommies out there.

Coming Undone by Maeve Kousiakis

“Haggis! Oh my god, do you have to . . . every . . . time. Aarrgg. That is so utterly, despicably horrible.” In her attempt to conserve energy in order not to throw up, Meghan had deserted the toddler’s nappy and focused on the dirty bum first, so the nappy had found itself sneakily ensconced in pug drool on its way to being devoured at a quieter retreat.

Just twenty minutes ago, Meghan was on her back on the couch with little Billy fast asleep on her chest and Haggis the pug, unusually, asleep at her feet. She had heard the Barbet calling from the tree outside the window and the smell of rain wafting through the breezy curtains in a smidgen of short-lived peace.

Billy had stirred, realised that he had lost the battle against keeping his eyes open and broken into a howl. The pug, now recharged, had made an instant beeline for Billy’s bottom, producing an explanation for the smell increasingly asserting itself.

Meghan got up holding the toddler while fending off the persistent pug still tugging at the nappy. Once up, she realisied there was a reason she had been on the couch. Nausea welled up and all the previous nights cocktails were diluted to an insipid cup of tea.

Meghan, putting Billy on his back, prepared for the onslaught of yuk and got lost in her thoughts about how last night’s “Girl’s Night Out” was maybe not that worth it after all, and that hangovers and kids go together like custard and sardines.

A tip that people conveniently left out about having kids. Just like the other little things. Small, nasty details like stomach muscles that separate during pregnancy that give you a lifelong paunch and that you will never jump on a trampoline again without soaking your knickers because the muscles down there no longer take part in bladder control. It’s a long list.

“Get a baby sitter. Go out. It’s good for you.” The advice had fed a nagging urge for a taste of life before kids. Meghan was in love with motherhood, but sorely missed the world of music and movies and fine dining.

Snapping back to the stinky chore at hand, Meghan had caught sight of the escaping pug. She clambered over the floor peppered with toys, catching up with it on its way to the garden for an appetizer of toddler excrement.
Forcing the pug between her legs as she knelt, she grappled sticky gels and teeth, prying open stubborn jaws. The pug, not ready to relinquish it’s find, scrambled and jumped at her hands as she stood up.

Managing to connect a tooth with the nappy, the pug succeeded in presenting the cream carpet directly to the mushy, digested bits of last night’s supper. Stumbling as it returned to the ground from its attack, the pug landed on top of the face-down-mess, introducing the soft goo very much more intimately to the dry carpet fibers.

Gagging, Meghan lifted it up and stumbled back to the drawer and grabbed the box of nappy bags. It was empty. The new box sat staring at her in defiance in making any step through this maize of chaos easier for her. She grabbed it and ripped it open with her teeth, while dangling the rescued nappy between finger and thumb.

The pug, undeterred in its course of action, was frantically licking the carpet. It’s back legs circling the front, head and mouth fixed to the carpet, as it desperately tried to ingest carpet and delicious condiment, while Billy was whining to be picked up.

“Gimme a second Billy-boo. I’ll get you now. Mommy’s got a small, tiny little challenge here.” She dashed out to the kitchen dustbin (which had found a new lookout position on top of the counter to avoid further raiding by the pug) and grabbed cloths and floor cleaner.

The toddler, as toddlers do, did not stay still. He rolled over and down the side of the bed and landed firmly with his bum - more of last night’s digested supper sandwiched between bum and carpet - and toppled onto his back. Wriggling over to his stomach and up to a sitting position, a brand new artwork of contrasting brown smudges on cream canvas appeared.

Meghan got back to multiple wounds to the cream carpet. (Another thing to add to the list of conveniently forgotten details: Don’t have cream carpets. Actually, don’t have carpets at all).

Lifting up the toddler, before he realised that the brown stuff on the carpet could make more streaks with the help of his fingers, Meghan fumbled with the bottle of carpet cleaner. It fell. She expertly swung the toddler - with bum side to jersey – under her arm attempting to catch it. The carpet cleaner bottle bounced and released its contents, which spread over the carpet and neatly missed the scene of destruction it was supposed to have addressed.

Meghan threw her head back and sighed as she realised the state of her jersey.
“Fuck. Could it get any worse.” She said loudly.
What was that crash? Where was that pug? She ignored both worrying sentiments to attend to her and Billy’s imminent hygiene needs.

“Billy-boo, if you squirm around it’s just going to take longer.” Said Meghan, her fingers straining to press the Velcro tag into place while holding the other flapping side of the new nappy, her arms pinning down the chest and flailing limbs of the toddler.

This had all become second nature, but doing it with a hangover in tow was brand new territory. A half a bag of wet wipes later, she was able to strip off her brown smudged jersey, grab Billy and head for the new source of necessary damage control.

At the kitchen door, Meghan gasped. The pug, covered in Neapolitan source, which she had thrown in the dustbin last night, was gorging itself on chicken bones and nappy entrails. Bits of litter and left over food and serviettes were strewn all over the floor, dotted with vegetable skins and crusts of soggy bread. A discarded bottle of juice had come open on its way down from the top of the counter with the dustbin and settled itself in between the rest of the detritus.

A draw had been left open, which the demon pug had clambered up and found a way to the dustbin. In it’s desperation in turning over the dustbin, it had knocked over the kettle, adding a liter of water to the concoction covering the floor. Another casualty of the incident was the minced meat sitting on the counter, defrosting for supper.

Meghan stood defeated. Shoulders drooped and head back, she groaned.

“Fuck.” Said little Billy.
She whipped her head around to look at him, innocence incarnate on her hip.

“Fuck.” He repeated with a big, wide grin, eyes wide with excited pride, searching for approval.

Meghan collapsed on the couch and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket.


“Hi. Matthew? Honey, help. Please can you pick up some supper on your way home? Your wife is currently out of order. Oh, and Billy said his first word!”

12 Short Story Challenge - no.6 (because why start with no.1?)

She opened her eyes again to the same bewildering blackness.

“It’s still so pitch black. Where the hell am I?” she whispered.

Her voice sounded foreign, like someone else was talking.

“Why is it so flipping cold? Hello?” she said to nobody.

There was only black. Her voice reverberated back as if the walls were clad in fluffy carpet. The air was thickly disorientated. She couldn’t fathom whether she was sitting or standing or lying down. Her feet were like ice and her hands were numb, moving them was like wading through dark syrup. It was so cold her breath was hurting her throat.

There was warmth when she turned her head. She tried to get closer. Her body was too heavy and un-obliging. She figured out that when she turned her head, her body seemed to morph in that direction. Facing more towards the warmth, she seemed to get closer to it.

There was a glow, working its way through the black from the warmth. It pulsed the scent of early summer jasmine, that outlined feelings of bare feet on green grass with sticky watermelon and the brushing of white cotton, billowing at open windows.

“Am I sleeping? Am I blind?”

Confusion mounting as vivid memories of summer disappeared. She turned away. The cold began biting again.

“Hello? Help. I don’t know which way to go.”

She managed to put her hand up to her face and realised she was whimpering. Why was she sad? She couldn’t remember, but the sadness was tangible. It was squished in between her fingers and molding with the sticky black. Her hands displaced it like little Davie’s playdough. David! Where was her Davie?

The light became blinding. Welcoming the warmth, she tried to move faster. Her body would not reciprocate the urge. There was a feeling of unexplained urgency to get to the light – and to find Davie. A Feeling of contentment drew her towards the magnetic Jasmine.

“Mommy!”

A faint cry. She put her hand out to touch it. The realisation knocked her backwards and she hurtled towards the cold, the wind ripping up her hair. Davie was gone. She remembered. She could still feel his little fingers, as they released pressure while he passed his last strangled breath.

The brutal sadness engulfed her. So many pills at once proved more difficult than she had planned. They had scratched her throat, and were threatening to come up again. No – they were going down, like a pipe forcing it’s way into her lungs. The sad cold was unbearable. She gave up and let it take her. It dumped her on the sheets. Her body was limp, aching for the warm scent of jasmine.

“I have a pulse doctor!” shouted a woman.

A cacophony of beeping as hands roughly busied themselves around her face.

“Respirate!” replied a man. “Vitals are stable, transfer to surgery.”

The tear forced it’s way out of it’s crevice and down her temple and evaporated with the warm jasmine scent.

The White Protester.

You are mistaken. You think I am leaving my office tomorrow, for the biggest march in South African history, only because my white privilege is under threat. You are wrong. You think the reason I am showing face in protest is because my wallet has now been affected by Zuma’s guerilla tactics in capturing the state, and the fall of the rand. You are wrong. I love my country. I love South Africa. I love the people. I hate what the government has done with it’s twenty year reign after apartheid was abolished. Nothing has changed.

I am third generation white South African. Yes, I am privileged. I grew up in apartheid South Africa. I lived in a safe, white suburb where there was a good school. I got an education. My parents had enough money to get me a beat up old Mazda that got me to college. Which they also paid for. I could then get a job. I did not have an unemployed, extended family that ate up my whole pay cheque every month just to stay alive. I could get a bond to buy a house and a nice car. I have children who I can now educate with the same standard of education I had. I do not for one minute take this for granted.

I have come to know the evils of racism through stories. The atrocities of apartheid. Not just the “whites only” signs on benches in parks and public toilets and beaches. Not just the physical removal of people of colour from their homes and dumped as far away from white towns as possible. But also the hidden implications and the psychological torture of the ripping apart of families where children grew up without their fathers. Sometimes without their mothers too. Who had access only to minimal education so were set up for unemployment from childhood. The brainwashed notion that being a black made you inferior to a white purely because the government had literally beat it into your elders, who in turn passed it, unconsciously, to you. It takes generations and generations to undo that kind of societal damage. I understand where the hatred of me comes from.

But it was not me. My grandparents and great grandparents sowed the poisonous seeds. I did not take your land. I did not deny you an education and job. I was not even born when these things happened to your fore fathers. I took part in those first exciting democratic elections as a naive teenager only just old enough to vote. I can never undo the shameful acts of my predecessors. I read books and stories about how bad it was for people of colour under apartheid. I cry. But I cannot undo it.

What I can do is NOT jump on a plane with my European-passport-holding husband (kids and investments in tow) to go and live in another country. I can stay. And pour my white, privileged education and knowledge back into the economy by working and paying taxes. And protest. Hoping that the government introduces decent, free education to everyone so that BEE can actually be successfully deployed. Where it can benefit the whole underprivileged population and not just an elite few. It’s been twenty years.

This is my country too. Whether you like it or not. And I will fight for it just like you. Next to you. I will be awkward and probably break out into Kumbaya My Lord, so you will have to stop me and teach me how to be an effective protester. Amandla! And what comes after it. I have had no experience in standing up to the government for anything. I know that the Gupta alliance which is now in full control of our country is more damaging to those poor, hopeless, underprivileged souls first abused by apartheid, and now abused by the ANC. The nobodies. The ignorant, vulnerable mass of voters. Our people. I am marching tomorrow because they will suffer the most. Again. From a crippled economy destroyed by greed and crony-ism among the very people they faught for freedom with, and who they appointed to lead them.

I am the white, inexperienced protester I ask you not to hate. Jacob Zuma is not my president. Not because is black. But because he is a greedy rapist. He has raped women. He has raped South Africa. While the rest of the ANC have stood as bystanders and watched the sadistic violation of our country.

He must go. Now.

#zumamustfall

A DAY IN THE LIFE. AND NOT A GOOD ONE.

When you open your eyes and in between the knife jammed between your ears, and the confusion of the brightness of the room for that time in the morning, the most logical conclusion your brain would deliver is that there was a huge explosion in the night - hence the dull thud in your skull - and that the planet has been knocked off its axis and changed the rising of the sun’s time. It probably would have come to it’s sense though, as mine did and told you that you’ve opened your eyes on Monday morning to an unexplained headache and the alarm didn’t go off as it should have for the minor weekday-panic-spree. Therefore escalating imminent minor panic spree to major panic spree and it’s not even 8am. 

This does not bode well for the day’s forecast.

Neither does the spindly, eight-legged intruder dangling a few centimetres from the ceiling over my duvet. Diving out of bed in panic onto the snoring pug causing mad squawking. Destroying the once sleepy silence with scurrying claws to laminate floors. An extra struggle exerted by my body to not landing spread-eagled on the bedroom floor strains that volatile groin muscle, again. I grabbed the wall for support and straightening up, took a quick reconnaissance of the scene. Spider scurrying across the ceiling for cover. Pug snorting and grinning in excited animation at the prospect of the dull night over and ready for play - despite the slight limp in the left leg from human foot connecting with pug body earlier. Definitely not a small headache, could be bordering on migraine but it’s too early to tell, and was that the familiar ache in the groin (which took months to heal last year) back? Well, it could be worse. Yip, it just did - the youngest has been disturbed. The the toddler flaps around in sleepy dis-coordination under his blanky. There is movement but no sound yet. Tip-toeing out the room stealthily I reach the passage and throw my head back, sighing eyes rolling, shoulders slumped, as Pug skilfully negates all my efforts of keeping youngest sleeping by noisily mining a path in the slippery laminate floor in a desperate attempt to gain speed and beat me to the kitchen. 

As I scoop up complaining youngest and hurry down the passage while cooing happy phrases of pretty blue skies with no clouds and the happy sun is awake and will keep the rain away today, I try and workout how I will get all the lunches made and packed. With one hand. In record time aswell as we have all overslept. Youngest does not like to be put down at this time in the morning, the reason for trying to postpone the early disturbance of sleepy silence.

The usual mad rush to get everyone dressed and looking respectful for their daily destinations goes along as usual in it’s splendid chaos with nothing more out of the ordinary. Once half of them (oldest and Dad) are safely on their way to school with all amenities packed, a nestle on the couch with the youngest and a cup of tea as the norm, is rudely interrupted by a mad fumble for the ringing phone. It was Dad. Turning back just before the school gate. With oldest still whinging in the front seat about the wrong socks. Dad stops short of hurling oldest out the car door in my direction while still in motion to get to his early morning meeting on time leaving oldest for me to sort out. A mad washing and dressing and combing to resemble something less frightening and more like mom ensues. Oldest and youngest both jammed back into the car and it’s off to school again. One hour late. But both get to school eventually, and that day-at-the-spa calm returns like normal at the doors of the office. Just until school ends though, which comes all too quickly. Then it’s off again - to face the chaos. 

A horrible cacophony of noise erupts from oldest as he is forced to leave the playground before the usual after-school playtime in order to make the dentist appointment. It’s youngest’s first one - so nerves are writhing. Will it be a mad wrestle and writhe to the robotic chair with much accompanied squealing or will it be . . . there will probably be no “or” so accept the latter. The dentist’s forecast was some expensive jaw and teeth orthodontics on oldest, and booked youngest for a general anaesthetic in a month’s time to repair a number of cavities. Both diagnoses send the wallet cringing and wailing for mercy to the darkest corners of my handbag. Back home we go and after a ridiculous exchange on the way with oldest about how he cannot hang from the window and decapitate himself on a sign post while driving. I realise they have not eaten. It saves a multitude of tantrums if both are constantly well fed. The quickest way to get that done is chocolate sandwiches. Much loved, not a complete non-no with regards to nutrition and easily slapped together. As I consider how to approach the  homework war for the afternoon with oldest, youngest looks odd. I move closer and note his distorted cheeks and mouth. Hives beginning on the lips and inside the mouth. Literally while I’m talking to him, trying to find out where he found the nuts he must have eaten, his face and ears turn a crimson red. He is scratching his arms  and legs aggressively. 

He has quite a serious nut allergy, which I haven’t been taking seriously. It’s never gone to the point of actually ingesting the nut product so I’ve never had to worry about complete anaphylactic shock. Yet. I glance at the empty plate on the table. Not once has he ever finished a sandwich. (Note the spelling of NUTella. Apparently it’s easy for moms to miss the main ingredient as it’s not actually in the name of the product). Today he did finish a whole sandwich. Crust and all. When it had a healthy spreading of an ingredient that could literally kill him. If I ever needed confirmation of the suspected nut allergy, here it was. In all its beautiful display of perfect hives and flushed complexion and puffer fish characteristics. On my little toddler’s face. And arms and legs and even the soles of his feet. He asks me in an uncharacteristically gruff voice for more “chokit sammich”. That change of voice meant a swelling throat. Without hesitation, I yank both kids into the car and speed off to the emergency room. Thankfully not even a minutes drive from our house. Especially not a minute when all stop streets, pedestrians, village boom gate and red robots miraculously disappear from the route. Oldest was wowed with our speed around the corners and suitably impressed with the skid down the parking ramp.

I will, for the rest of my life, give continuous and inundated thanks to Jokichi Takamine for the discovery of adrenalin. As far back as the early 1900’s. A lifesaving hormone originally purified from adrenal glands of sheep and oxen. Probably the most important medical discovery of all time. According to me. Not thirty seconds after the doctor jabbed the needle into that sweet little bottom, had all symptoms disappeared. I don’t mean, wore off rather quickly or lessened to a degree of slight swelling and mild symptoms. I mean gone. As gone as not there. Zero visability. “Schrodinger’s cat” come “the box was never opened”. Absolute Houdinified disappearance. To you, Jokichi - for all those late nights and hard research in that Japanese lab. Salutations!

And then me. Left there, wondering if I could slip out while no-one was watching and pretend it never happened. I did effectively earn a night in the hospital (as a precaution) for my efforts. For observation, they said. I’m not sure if this was cause or effect of admitting that he got the Nutella from me when questioned by the nurse and doctor and receptionist at the front desk. 

“How did he get the Nutella?”

“From me.”

“Well at least you know about the nut allergy now.”

“I already knew. I just forgot that he was allergic to nuts. And that Nutella is made from nuts. And I had a bad day.”

Arched eye brows from all three at this response. Observation . . . of how mom and toddler interact and make sure that there was no premeditated abuse involved.

So, Mother of the Year Award goes to . . . I actually landed my little boy in hospital. Through complete and NUTter negligence. I doubt any of you reading this could top that. Next time you have a bad day, come back and read it again. 

You’re welcome.

: )

Howzit? Well, impossible really.

When they - my siblings, all of four of them - followed the yellow brick road to that much-hated, no-good, smoulderingly-hot, abundantly peculiar Land of Oz, (seriously - have you actually looked at a kangaroo properly and watched it move?), smack-in-the-middle-of-nowhere, it seemed like just another country. 

It’s not. It’s bizarre. It’s the only place on the planet with things like trunk-nosed-hedgehog Echnidas and mammals that lay eggs and Cassowary birds that look like delusional dinosaurs that can kill you with a flick of their dagger-ended toes. Ethereal Box Jelly fish, morbidly lethal. Man eating crocodiles in the sea. Insanely huge bats, insanely huge spiders, insanely huge pythons. Cone Snails with venom so poisonous, one drop can kill twenty adults. There is no winter. Strange sounding people that actually stop at pedestrian crossings for pedestrians to cross the road without them having to throw themselves in the way of cars to stop the flow of traffic. Strange sounding people that stop at red lights, don’t drink and drive and follow the speed limit every single day, all day long. Where the majority of people call you “mate” and pay their taxes to the government (instead of a tiny, minuscule percentage that keep the rest of the population afloat), and paying taxes means one can go to any hospital without giving up an arm and a leg - literally - in monthly medical aid rates to afford private hospitals as government ones are so under resourced and badly managed here, that they are more hazardous to your health than the reason why you would be there in the first place. Where the news headlines of “Family Tortured and Murdered for Cell Phone” are replaced with “Croc chases golfer off course” and where the leader, the Go-To-Guy, The President . . . is not under scrutiny for seven hundred and eighty three criminal charges. Seven hundred and eighty three, and still in power, and still racking up the charges. Unhindered.

“You’re going to Oz? Cool!” with scenes of breathtaking beaches and exotic holiday destinations flashing through the head as part of visiting the newly emigrated. In the beginning, exciting catch up times on Skype with stories of new homes and exciting experiences and spider encounters and snake visitors. After a while, when the expense involved and the time needed in getting there sinks in, it’s all replaced with the realisation that Oz is very, very, VERY fucking far away, and not just in distance. There is no good time to get Oz on the other side of a conversation. Night or day.

Ten thousand kilometres away in Australia, my brothers and sisters are already waking to the daily morning frenzy of getting up and out for the day. Eight hours behind them, we are still shut-eyed and sleeping, blissfully hours away from that inevitably ensuing morning frenzy. One can understand when both parties are in opposite mindsets and on opposite sides of the planet, how impossible Skype conversations are. When I’m ready to have a catch up and “howzit”, they are concentrating on just keeping their heads above chaos while bathing and eating and home-working before the nightly shut-eye escape. When they’re ready to “howzit”, I’m donning armbands and wine to survive the flood of that evening chaos. Everyone knows that a decent, controlled conversation at that time of the day is impossible, never mind with the added interference of unstable internet connections. 

As well as competing with the time difference amid pixelated faces and every second word missing from descriptions of marble and coin collections and blowing kisses and pulling tongues, there are three other variables present in our house that make for unsatisfying conversations. The Pugs, The Big One and The Small One.

To save us from interruptions of lunatic flat noses frantically chasing the dustbin truck through (yes- through - although due to the laws of the planet solid masses cannot morph through other solid masses, so Pug meets steel at full speed when gate unceremoniously halts momentum) the gate while tearing each other to pieces in unadulterated pandemonium, or preventing the toddling Small One from falling head first into the toilet bowl while retrieving his bouncing ball - which is rather pivotal at this time in Gauteng due to massive water restrictions and being advised to only flush “when necessary”. It’s threatening The Big One within an inch of his life if he doesn’t stop carving his name on the dining room table instead of finishing his spelling within the next hour (as opposed to dragging it out to the usual two-and-a-half-hour-battle-to-the-death). All this while making supper. It’s like herding cats, beyond the bounds of possibility. All this adds pressure to the already close-to-exploding flood of self pity in having siblings over twenty-four-hours-on-a-plane away. Having siblings in Oz, is like not having siblings. They might as well have joined Elon Musk’s trek to Mars. A one way ticket to absent. 

Like the tick on a dog - sucking the life blood of it’s host until fat and bloated. An ominous, isolated rock lurking ten thousand kilometres away in the Indian Ocean, which has the pick of the crop. Unhappy South Africans, tired of the blatant, reverse discrimination of Black Empowerment, apartheid-style business rules and the unchallenged, insidious corruption of government officials and subsequent squandering of state resources and people’s indispensable taxes are easy pickings for the hungry parasite. Misdirected anger towards Oz is like hating a step-parent for taking the place of a parent - justifiable in the reality of realising step-parent trumps parent and not willing to welcome the replacement. Yet. It could probably be placated with a state of the art teleporter, or a nice, sparkly, red pair of shoes. Actually, both - teleporter for when there’s power, and shoes for back up during load shedding. 

The Tonsil.

It states in all the religious creeds and commandments that we are supposed to refrain from hurting others. No slapping, smacking, hitting, pinching, biting, bruising, strangling, stabbing, dismembering or killing our fellow humans. We’re not supposed to hurt each other. As an alternative we resort to hurling abuse in order air our contempt for them or their actions. It’s a lot harder to supply evidence of verbal atrocities than physical ones without visible bullet wounds or missing appendages.

Among the thousands of names available on the verbal abuse front, apparently, 

is Tonsil. Until now it wouldn’t have been first on my list of profanities. Until I had children and experienced first hand the power the tonsil commands over misery and pain and loathing. The word does lend itself to rolling off the tongue with vehemence which is strongly characteristic of most insulting adjectives. When you’re yelling out the car window in a blaze of fury, you need something short and hard sounding. Like Dickhead. Or Fucktard. Or Plonker. It’s the “k” that makes it blast forth with fury to recipients ears, but Tonsil does have a certain hardness in the T that could pass. 

Calling someone a Dickhead is to liken their facial features to a penis - not the prettiest thing to have on your shoulders- or being compared to a retarded or mentally deprived individual in the act of copulation as a Fucktard - being imagined as an uncoordinated couple banging uglies would be awkwardly unflattering - or even being referred to as something useless or inept as well as large and ungainly would be a successful slap to the ego with Plonker. But Tonsil? 

In our house, tonsils are not just useless lumps of lymphatic tissue but superhuman, vindictive little beings viciously clinging to my usually content and happy toddler’s unsullied little throat. They lie in wait for any passing smidgen of bacteria to foster and mutate into devastating proportions of fever and pain within a matter of hours. Their power to change the environment of our home from harmony to miserable discord akin to a war torn country’s battle for peace is unfathomable. They are evil to the core. A super hero villain equivalent of Darth Vader, Voldemort and Sauron all rolled into one. Just as attractive too. 

I’ll never forget the vision of horror as I peered down into my baby’s throat on the request of the doctor to share his amazement and wonder at the size of those lowly cretins oozing puss from their bulbous, veiny bodies of fleshy tissue- like some kind of alien life form from a horror movie dissimulating their presence as protective glands while colluding their next attack.

Tonsillitis (the physical eventuality of the evilness of The Tonsil) makes even the most benign of toddlers normally opposed to all reason obstreperously impossible to manage. With a fever always and undoubtedly over 39 degrees their aching little bodies and minds refuse every single item in the daily chain of events from not running up and down the dining room table for fear of concussion or not climbing into the toilet for fear of drowning or contracting a life threatening infection to eating dinner to wiping a food blasted face to a nappy change to getting into the bath to getting out of the bath to getting dressed to brushing teeth to getting into bed. Everything. Melted into pure, unadulterated chaos. 

To liken another being who is influencing my life negatively by either blatantly bumping me in a queue or stealing my parking or giving me the finger when they were clearly behaving abominably on the road behind me or driving at 120km an hour down our dog and cat and children infested suburban street without stopping at the stop street to a tonsil, would be apt. 

The tonsil who parks his car in the disabled parking at the gym door because he doesn’t want to walk too far, who makes a dash for it out of turn when an out of order robot turns an intersection into a four way stop during peak hour, who stuffs a cigarette butt into a pot plant, who parked over two parking bays on a Saturday morning so his car doesn’t get shopping-mall-dimples, who was your boss and who suddenly came up with an salary increase after you handed in your resignation.

The tonsil I met in the dentist waiting room who pulled her child out of a school because the teacher was gay, my neighbour who won’t spay their cat because it’s too expensive, the other neighbour who pruned my tree hanging over his wall to a stump while i was on holiday, who set off fireworks for an hour at new year and drove the neighbourhood animals to a state of terrified frenzy. That type that throws his bag of empty Macdonalds packaging out his car window. 

The absolute tonsil, who tells his people that a shower will rid them of aids, who advocates safe sex and then fathers twenty children, who blatantly steals taxpayers money to fund his own palace, who single handedly is destroying an entire nation for his own personal gain and who will stop at nothing to confirm his top seat as a stupid, uneducated thief too drunk on riches and power to realise the consequences of his presidential terms and the subsequent chaos. The absolute tonsil. The ugly, disgusting, puss oozing, chaos colluding motherfucking, tonsil.

It’s maybe not as good as a slow and un-anaesthetised dismemberment, but spitting it out through clenched teeth instead could save a whole lot of time and energy trying to stay out of jail which might sway it as a successful substitute.

It's all about the bog. And the age old art of distraction. And television.

It's perfect. Cocooned in a quiet, calm space, void of most distractions and nothing to do but wait, all sorts of thought passages which previously couldn't make the headlines in the conscious brain seem to step forward and announce themselves. For me, it's the most creative, lifesolving place available (and most favoured for the execution of a Peace Plan).

Peace Plans are limited and in high demand, which makes them extremely rare. Executing a Peace Plan for a visit to the Bog, involves diverting the three snorting, cavorting, scratching, licking, farting, four legged, curly tailed members of my family towards a passer by in the window instead of beaming at me from under my feet plus managing my escape with the distraction of the two legged, ankle biters with something more interesting than mommy's lap. Which is hard to compete with. Sometimes I fail at all attempts and end up with the five of them snorting, cavorting, scratching, licking, farting and clambering up my knees for first place as sidekick on the Porcelain Throne. Mostly though, I manage a few micro seconds with the help of the television (and maybe a plate of snacks which serves as tummy filling activity for the two leggeds and a nice, solid distraction of drooling and wide eyeing and clambering for the four leggeds). Bliss. Thanking the universe for televisions. May Charles Jenkins rest in eternal peace.

Although that's a bit fuzzy, the history of television is not a clear picture. The Russians had a hand in it with Paul Nipkow as well as the British with Alan Swinton and what race would be complete without the Americans hot on the heels with Charles Jenkins, John Baird and Philo Farnsworth. May you all rest in peace - Nipkow, Swinton, Jenkins, Baird and Farnsworth. Without you, I might be doomed to a view of  . . . well, not peace.

One does need to be careful though. In the haste to get the two leggeds settled and to a state of seated safety with knickers by knees, a brash push of buttons to execute a blast of colour and sound in order to stun and mute the two leggeds into required near catatonic state (which is the best way to execute this Plan of Peace, as sidelining in the moving pictures with subtlety doesn't create the impact necessary to break concentration and part from mommy's hand or leg or arm or whatever appendage has been taken hostage and could put the whole operation in jeopardy) the channel might still be set on whatever was previously being watched by the larger two leggeds of the house. This would put the Peace Plan in immediate jeopardy while explanations to questions like "Why is the man hitting the lady?" and "What's that red stuff squirting out his head?" and "Why are those people wrestling with no clothes on mommy?"

All of those could take a very long time to put in to perspective for the two leggeds tiny brain. The Peace Plan being completely dismantled until further notice while explanations are taken care of which would then cause default action of dancing and crotch clutching to extend the respectful status of dry pants.

Friend or foe - that box of moving colour and sound certainly enhances the success rate of an executed Peace Plan by ten fold. As evil as it can be in tarnishing young minds with scenes not meant for their age and creating atrophy in development by anchoring young bottoms to the couch and preventing bodies and brains from flourishing - there is most definitely a place for it. Little fevered heads are kept still with Teletubbies and Barney or splintered arms are rested with the Master of The Peace Plan at 7 Pontac street - Sean the Sheep. (What a legend. Thank you Aardman studios and your amazing model makers, may you have many years of prosperous box office ratings in your future, with not a rumour or hint of ending Sean the Sheep episodes until well into our primary school years). Or, most importantly, the saving of mommy's sanity, for when it's been a long day and the two leggeds are simultaneously collapsing from exhaustion and refusing the horizontal closed eye position with much vigour, while vociferously ranting the ridiculous notion of a nap in the middle of the day, and that colour suddenly beams out with corresponding notes of a magical world rapturing their little brains - all resistance crumbles and with lots and lots of luck, sleep creeps up and envelopes or at best, a smidgen of quiet lethargy resets the scene.

Hail all - Nipkow, Swinton, Jenkins, Baird and Farnsworth - long live television, and Aardman and Sean the Sheep - protector of dry pants and master executor of The Peace Plan!