ages) before Laura finally plucks up the courage to put an end to the evening. She gives a yawn of such overblown theatricality I can hear Laurence Olivier turning in his grave. “It really is time for bed I think. Got a long day tomorrow car hunting!”
Ellie couldn’t look more disappointed if you told her tofu had bacon in it. “Oh, okay. That’s a shame. The game was really getting exciting.”
“Never mind,” offers Grant. “We’ll leave it here and pick it up tomorrow.”
If I could insert the dining table up Grant’s narrow arse right now, I would.
“Well done,” I whisper to Laura as we head to our room having said our good nights.
“I couldn’t take it anymore. My soul feels like it’s been repeatedly hit with a hammer.”
“Yep, that’s Rummikub for you.”
“What the hell does that word mean anyway?”
“It’s translated from the original Hebrew. It means to suffer a slow and agonising death.”
I’m joking of course, but in that instant Laura is more than prepared to believe me. I lower the blind across our door and lie on the bed. This is a jolly painful thing to do. I’ve slept in uncomfortable beds before, but this one actually causes me physical harm. It’s quite incredible.
I watch Laura check on Poppy, who is sound asleep. I watch my wife’s face change from one of sleepy discontent to abject horror.
“What’s the matter?” I hiss, trying hard not to raise my voice too loud given that Grant and Ellie can probably hear everything we’re saying, thanks to the lack of a fucking door on our room.
Laura points at Poppy’s head. “Mosquito!”
I jump up and peer down at my daughter. Perched on her forehead is a mosquito roughly the size of my fist. It’s looking back up at me and squinting—as if daring me to take a swipe at it.
“Get rid of it Jamie!” Laura whispers as vociferously as possible. Quite why I’ve been automatically designated mosquito killer is beyond me, but I start flapping my hand around just above Poppy’s forehead, hoping to dislodge the bugger without waking my daughter up.
This succeeds, but instead of having a calm mosquito sucking Poppy’s blood in fairly contented fashion, I now have an enraged mosquito flying directly at my face, intent on sucking my eyeballs out of my head.
I flap ineffectually at it. Mosquitoes are not the most aerobatic of insects, but this one doesn’t have to put much effort into avoiding my hands as they’re both suffering repetitive strain injury from the twelve years of Rummikub I’ve just played. The fat insect flies up towards the ceiling.
“Hit it with something!” Laura suggests helpfully.
I desperately look around for a suitable weapon. If I don’t deprive the sodding creature of its life right now, it will go off and hide until we’re fast asleep. Then it will spend the rest of the night snacking on our extremities.
Laura is bent over Poppy, no doubt checking for signs of a bite, so she can’t help with my search. I can’t see anything that looks like it has swatting potential, so I whip off my T-shirt and start chasing the mosquito around the room. Of course the T-shirt is just slightly too short to reach the bastard as it bobs around the ceiling, so I have to climb up onto the bed. This puts me precariously close to the ceiling fan, which is still turning slowly and wafting the soupy air around the room.
The mosquito has settled briefly on the coving a scant few feet in front of me. I lunge at it and smack the bastard square on.
Woo-hoo! That’s one dead mosquito that won’t be munching on my face tonight.
In my moment of celebration I forget that I’m standing on the bed and lose my balance. One arm goes out reflexively and my hand latches onto the first thing it can gain purchase on: one of the lazily swinging blades of the ceiling fan. This helps to regain my balance for the briefest of moments before the blade continues its sedate pace around on its arc and carries me off the
Ellie couldn’t look more disappointed if you told her tofu had bacon in it. “Oh, okay. That’s a shame. The game was really getting exciting.”
“Never mind,” offers Grant. “We’ll leave it here and pick it up tomorrow.”
If I could insert the dining table up Grant’s narrow arse right now, I would.
“Well done,” I whisper to Laura as we head to our room having said our good nights.
“I couldn’t take it anymore. My soul feels like it’s been repeatedly hit with a hammer.”
“Yep, that’s Rummikub for you.”
“What the hell does that word mean anyway?”
“It’s translated from the original Hebrew. It means to suffer a slow and agonising death.”
I’m joking of course, but in that instant Laura is more than prepared to believe me. I lower the blind across our door and lie on the bed. This is a jolly painful thing to do. I’ve slept in uncomfortable beds before, but this one actually causes me physical harm. It’s quite incredible.
I watch Laura check on Poppy, who is sound asleep. I watch my wife’s face change from one of sleepy discontent to abject horror.
“What’s the matter?” I hiss, trying hard not to raise my voice too loud given that Grant and Ellie can probably hear everything we’re saying, thanks to the lack of a fucking door on our room.
Laura points at Poppy’s head. “Mosquito!”
I jump up and peer down at my daughter. Perched on her forehead is a mosquito roughly the size of my fist. It’s looking back up at me and squinting—as if daring me to take a swipe at it.
“Get rid of it Jamie!” Laura whispers as vociferously as possible. Quite why I’ve been automatically designated mosquito killer is beyond me, but I start flapping my hand around just above Poppy’s forehead, hoping to dislodge the bugger without waking my daughter up.
This succeeds, but instead of having a calm mosquito sucking Poppy’s blood in fairly contented fashion, I now have an enraged mosquito flying directly at my face, intent on sucking my eyeballs out of my head.
I flap ineffectually at it. Mosquitoes are not the most aerobatic of insects, but this one doesn’t have to put much effort into avoiding my hands as they’re both suffering repetitive strain injury from the twelve years of Rummikub I’ve just played. The fat insect flies up towards the ceiling.
“Hit it with something!” Laura suggests helpfully.
I desperately look around for a suitable weapon. If I don’t deprive the sodding creature of its life right now, it will go off and hide until we’re fast asleep. Then it will spend the rest of the night snacking on our extremities.
Laura is bent over Poppy, no doubt checking for signs of a bite, so she can’t help with my search. I can’t see anything that looks like it has swatting potential, so I whip off my T-shirt and start chasing the mosquito around the room. Of course the T-shirt is just slightly too short to reach the bastard as it bobs around the ceiling, so I have to climb up onto the bed. This puts me precariously close to the ceiling fan, which is still turning slowly and wafting the soupy air around the room.
The mosquito has settled briefly on the coving a scant few feet in front of me. I lunge at it and smack the bastard square on.
Woo-hoo! That’s one dead mosquito that won’t be munching on my face tonight.
In my moment of celebration I forget that I’m standing on the bed and lose my balance. One arm goes out reflexively and my hand latches onto the first thing it can gain purchase on: one of the lazily swinging blades of the ceiling fan. This helps to regain my balance for the briefest of moments before the blade continues its sedate pace around on its arc and carries me off the
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