Here is the eagerly awaited <snigger> second blog post from renowned author <more sniggering> Paul Davies. Enjoy:-)
Ah, that familiar repetitive question asked by so many excitable children on so many long journeys and listened to by so many loving parents all around the planet. Those four little words – cute and slightly amusing for the first ten minutes – that are guaranteed to eventually grate on your nerves and lead you to wonder if you could indeed get away with committing murder!
A lot of you good people out there, I would imagine, have no doubt encountered this situation and on reading this blog might even smile a little and whisper, “Yep, I’ve been there Mister Davies!”
There will also be a number of parents/guardians out there who have sons and daughters that have thankfully come of age and no longer travel with them on long journeys because: A) It’s uncool or B) They have their own cars. For those people, the aforementioned, incredibly irritating, phrase ceases to be and at last, they can carry on with their lives in relative bliss. They can jump into their cars, smooth on their hessian-backed driving gloves, play the kick-ass tunes of Roger Whittaker to their hearts content and push the pedal to the metal, safe in the knowledge that the question – Are we there yet? – will no longer be asked of them. Hallelujah and rejoice for you all have served your time well. Live long and prosper!!
Now. To those readers who still have young children of speaking age and are in fact being subjected to this phrase, I will say this. Bear with it and put those murderous thoughts to the back of your mind because there will come a time when it will eventually end. Like a hacking cough, a banging headache or an intimate rash, it will end …
… unless, of course, you’re me!!
Because folks, if you’re me – a man whom by rights should be way past having to hear that sort of mind-numbing repetition – you will continue to be subjected to the are we there yet? phenomena but on a much larger scale. Huge. A scale that is so intense, one can almost imagine taking one’s own life just to ease the assault on your senses.
And unfortunately – as if to compound the penance I must pay for whatever wrong I have done in life – I have not one but two sources from which this woeful pestering comes!
Is it from your own children? I hear you cry.
No dear friends, it is not, as my daughter now fits into example (A) shown above.
Conversely – which makes it slightly worse – the Japanese mind torture comes not from children, but from beings of the adult-ish variety!
The first offender – and on this occasion I shall not reveal the culprit’s name – normally appears late at night when I should be in the land of slumber, tap, tap, tapping away at my brain until I am worn down to a submissive pulp that will agree to anything; which is why I am now writing this blog!
The second culprit, who also believes that I have nothing better to do than sit around waiting for their demands, is my elderly neighbour, Norma.
Now, the very fact that I have used the term elderly might make you think that I’m a horrible person, rotten to the core, who should be ashamed of himself for not wanting to help the elderly in their time of need?
And to those who are harbouring that understandable thought in their minds, I say this … Sod off. You come spend a day at my home pretending to be me and see how you feel after the constant texts and phone calls asking: Are you busy? Are you busy? Are you busy?
This, I concede, is not proof of mental (and sometimes physical) persecution but over the next couple of blogs that I do for thelamaison, I will introduce you all more formerly to Norma the neighbour and tell of the tasks she has me doing on a regular basis; tasks, ladies and gentlemen that have almost driven me to the point of insanity and have me doing things like this:
So until next time readers, keep safe, be patient with your children, love the elderly and pray – to the almighty above – for the salvation of my mental stability.