OPEN ON AISLE IN TESCO. INT. DAY.
SCARLETT (7 and a half): Daddy, can I have a gooey alien?
ME (49 and a third): A what?
SCARLETT: A gooey alien. It’s a baby alien in goo.
ME: That’s not a baby alien, that’s a foetus in its amniotic sac.
SCARLETT: What’s a foetus?
ME: How about this Brit Awards CD?
SCARLETT: Nah, I want a baby alien.
ME: It’s got that Billy Ray Jepsom song on it.
SCARLETT: It’s Carly Rae Jepsen.
ME: That’s what I said, diddle-eye?
SCARLETT (rolls eyes to heaven): Da-deeee.
ME: Look, it’s got Gangnam Style on it as well.
SCARLETT: They come in different colours. You collect them.
ME: “It’s hard to look right, at you, baaaaby, so here’s my number, just call me, may”…
ME: I bet Lydia would like it.
SCARLETT: Get it for Lydia, then. I want a gooey alien.
ME: “Ripped jeans, skin was showing, hot night wind was blowin’,”…
SCARLETT: Daddy. If you want Carly Rae Jepsen so badly, just buy it!
And there I was – caught red-handed. Other parents looking at the ground as they gave me a wide berth with their trolleys. They knew my shame.
Some of the many wonderful things about being a dad are being able to play with toys, watch kids’ films, do colouring in, make stuff, act like a lunatic and listen to music that is only fit for prepubescent ears. (To be fair, the two aforementioned songs aren’t fit for prepubescent ears.)
Of course, there are many tribulations with being a parent too. But I won’t go into them now, as I only have a two-gig capacity on this blog.
My seven-year-old is already behaving like a pouting teenager. Whereas, my five-year-old still thinks my special brand of dad-dancing is pretty damn cool.
So, even with my appalling maths, I reckon I’ve got a good brace of years left in which I can act like a fool before having to behave a little more sensibly for my children.
Ah, well. They can live in hope.