bed.
At this point I should have let go. Unfortunately in situations like this my brain often likes to take a quick holiday from proceedings. It’s been in similar circumstances enough times to know things aren’t going to end well and wants to get as far away from the blast zone as possible. I don’t think to release my grip on the blade of the ceiling fan and therefore start to drop to the floor still holding it. With a horrendous shriek of ancient metal, the blade snaps clean off the fan.
I hit the floor, spraining my ankle in the process, and sit back on the bed with a look of pained befuddlement on my face.
“Jamie!” Laura cries. “What the fuck have you done?”
“I didn’t mean to. I was trying to kill the mosquito.”
She looks down at the long piece of bent metal I’m still holding in my hand. “Well you certainly did a good job of killing the fan, you silly sod.”
I start to object but am interrupted by Grant, who has appeared at the open double doorway clad in a brown terry dressing gown that barely reaches his skinny little knees. “What’s all the racket there, Newmans?” he asks and yawns.
“There was a mosquito, Grant,” I reply. “I had to kill it.”
Grant looks up at the broken fan still turning lazily above our heads, only now with a pronounced lean to one side. He then regards the broken fan blade I’m still clutching like a sword. “Must have been a big bastard. I usually just hit ’em with a pillow.”
“I…I’m so sorry, Grant.” I stammer. “I’ll pay for a new one.”
Grant waves one skinny hand. “Ah, no worries. The bugger hardly worked anyway. You’ve given me an excuse to get a new one myself. Just do me a favour, though, will you?”
“What’s that?”
“If you see any more mozzies, just hit ’em with a pillow. That bed’s been in my family for generations and I don’t really want the headboard ripped off.”
“No problem,” I reply sheepishly and delicately put the fan blade on the dresser next to the bed.
“Well, night again then, Newmans,” Grant smiles and shuffles his way back from whence he came.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “That could have been worse.”
“Yeah? You haven’t seen the size of the bite on Poppy’s forehead yet.”
I trot over to the small single bed where my daughter has apparently grown a third eye. An angry red welt juts out from the middle of her forehead.
“Oh Christ,” I say.
“He’s not going to help us, pal,” Laura replies. “Pops is a deep sleeper, but that thing is going to itch like crazy. It’s only a matter of time before it wakes her up.”
And wake up she does about twenty minutes later as Laura and I are negotiating our way into semi-comfortable positions on the rock-hard ancient bed. I hear a plaintive moan from the other side of the room.
“Mummy? Itchy.” She’s asking for Mummy, but Laura gives me a look from where her head is buried in the pillow that suggests if I wish to keep breathing the baked air hanging around us, I should probably get up and attend to Poppy’s new bite.
I go over to where Poppy is lying scratching at her face like a dog with fleas. “Don’t scratch honey. It’ll make it worse.”
“It itches, Daddy. Don’t like it!”
“Perfectly understandable Poppet. That mosquito was the size of a camper van.”
I open my suitcase and take out the medical kit we’ve brought with us. Thankfully, Laura and her Teutonic level of organisation were responsible for packing it, so it’s stuffed to the rafters with every conceivable medicine. If I had been left in charge, I’d be looking down at four Elastoplasts and half a bottle of NyQuil. I pick out the sting-relief cream, squeeze a healthy blob of it on my hand, and lazily slap it on Poppy’s forehead.
“Just leave it alone now Pops. Let the cream do its stuff.”
“Stinky,” she growls at me and frowns in a carbon copy of her mother’s best annoyed expression.
“I know sweetie, but better stinky than
At this point I should have let go. Unfortunately in situations like this my brain often likes to take a quick holiday from proceedings. It’s been in similar circumstances enough times to know things aren’t going to end well and wants to get as far away from the blast zone as possible. I don’t think to release my grip on the blade of the ceiling fan and therefore start to drop to the floor still holding it. With a horrendous shriek of ancient metal, the blade snaps clean off the fan.
I hit the floor, spraining my ankle in the process, and sit back on the bed with a look of pained befuddlement on my face.
“Jamie!” Laura cries. “What the fuck have you done?”
“I didn’t mean to. I was trying to kill the mosquito.”
She looks down at the long piece of bent metal I’m still holding in my hand. “Well you certainly did a good job of killing the fan, you silly sod.”
I start to object but am interrupted by Grant, who has appeared at the open double doorway clad in a brown terry dressing gown that barely reaches his skinny little knees. “What’s all the racket there, Newmans?” he asks and yawns.
“There was a mosquito, Grant,” I reply. “I had to kill it.”
Grant looks up at the broken fan still turning lazily above our heads, only now with a pronounced lean to one side. He then regards the broken fan blade I’m still clutching like a sword. “Must have been a big bastard. I usually just hit ’em with a pillow.”
“I…I’m so sorry, Grant.” I stammer. “I’ll pay for a new one.”
Grant waves one skinny hand. “Ah, no worries. The bugger hardly worked anyway. You’ve given me an excuse to get a new one myself. Just do me a favour, though, will you?”
“What’s that?”
“If you see any more mozzies, just hit ’em with a pillow. That bed’s been in my family for generations and I don’t really want the headboard ripped off.”
“No problem,” I reply sheepishly and delicately put the fan blade on the dresser next to the bed.
“Well, night again then, Newmans,” Grant smiles and shuffles his way back from whence he came.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “That could have been worse.”
“Yeah? You haven’t seen the size of the bite on Poppy’s forehead yet.”
I trot over to the small single bed where my daughter has apparently grown a third eye. An angry red welt juts out from the middle of her forehead.
“Oh Christ,” I say.
“He’s not going to help us, pal,” Laura replies. “Pops is a deep sleeper, but that thing is going to itch like crazy. It’s only a matter of time before it wakes her up.”
And wake up she does about twenty minutes later as Laura and I are negotiating our way into semi-comfortable positions on the rock-hard ancient bed. I hear a plaintive moan from the other side of the room.
“Mummy? Itchy.” She’s asking for Mummy, but Laura gives me a look from where her head is buried in the pillow that suggests if I wish to keep breathing the baked air hanging around us, I should probably get up and attend to Poppy’s new bite.
I go over to where Poppy is lying scratching at her face like a dog with fleas. “Don’t scratch honey. It’ll make it worse.”
“It itches, Daddy. Don’t like it!”
“Perfectly understandable Poppet. That mosquito was the size of a camper van.”
I open my suitcase and take out the medical kit we’ve brought with us. Thankfully, Laura and her Teutonic level of organisation were responsible for packing it, so it’s stuffed to the rafters with every conceivable medicine. If I had been left in charge, I’d be looking down at four Elastoplasts and half a bottle of NyQuil. I pick out the sting-relief cream, squeeze a healthy blob of it on my hand, and lazily slap it on Poppy’s forehead.
“Just leave it alone now Pops. Let the cream do its stuff.”
“Stinky,” she growls at me and frowns in a carbon copy of her mother’s best annoyed expression.
“I know sweetie, but better stinky than
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