Sunday, February 17, 2008
Thicker than Water?
Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e
You will all be familiar with the saying that ‘Blood is thicker than water’ A strange phrase I’ve always thought. Suggesting that an ancestral or family bond is more important than a hydrogen oxygen bond? The scientist in me says I beg to differ; parents excepted (cos you can’t be here without them) you can probably manage quite nicely without any other blood relatives. Nae brothers or sisters or Aunties or Uncles won’t harm ye. However a few days without water and yer going to be deid.
And why is thickness the preferred measurement of choice? After all treacle is thicker than blood and tar is thicker than treacle? So by the strict definition of the saying you should put your relationship with the road above everything else (some people do love their cars more than their partners right enough – and let’s not even talk about the bloke that was caught humping his pushbike) but I digress. What’s so great about being thick anyway? Generally speaking that’s an insult. ‘Oi thickee!’ isn’t likely to be complimenting you on your familial closeness is it? Hmmm?
‘What the f*ck are you talking about Ham’ I hear you cry
Ok I’ll get to the point. My evil twin has recently spawned. Well clearly he didn’t; his wife Shirley did. In fact she did an excellent ‘baking’ job producing a healthy six pounder three weeks ahead of schedule. I certainly hope she got a productivity bonus for completing the contract within timescales and to specification – Bouncing baby boy called Robbie. Uncle Ham was invited up to see his new nephew.
Bing-Bong! Bing-Bong! A few seconds later my bleary eyed brother answered the door ‘can ye not just use the bell like everybody else?’, ‘I like saying bing-bong’ I replied before brushing past ‘Where’s the wee lad then’, ‘in the living room, but he’s having his dinner and-‘, ‘Hello ShirlWOOAH .. sorrysorrysorry’ I leapt back out of the living room like a scalded cat ‘as I was saying, he’s being fed’ muttered my bruv, shaking his head ‘not on solids yet then?’ I replied sheepishly ‘No strangely enough he’s still on milk what with him only being a week old’, ‘yes well um I saw that eeeer I mean uum eer …. Here’s a present’ I replied, thrusting a badly wrapped package into his hand.
‘Shall I keep this for Shirley to open?’, ‘why?’, ‘I think you’ll find the mother generally gets to open the presents’ he said patiently ‘after all she’s done most of the work’, ‘yeah fair point’ I mumbled, feeling somewhat out of my depth with the unknowns of these child related protocols. Fraz meanwhile had fallen asleep leaning against the coat rack. Hanging my jacket on his nose I knocked gently on the living room door ‘safe to come in yet?’, ‘yeees it’s fine now’ came the reply.
Noting that the ‘Milky bar’ was now closed for business I tiptoed across the room and peered at the tightly wrapped package sleeping in her arms. A wee pink nose was nestled at the top of a white wool chrysalis, tufts of dark brown hair were sticking out from under his hat ‘Aw he’s a wee mite isn’t he’, ‘what did you call my son!’ shouted my brother; now standing behind me and bristling with anger’, ‘a wee mite M-ite’ I replied whilst mouthing the letter m theatrically ‘oh sorry bruv, am a bit tired the noozzzzzzzz’, ‘doing that a lot is he?’ I asked Shirley as he slumped back onto the sofa
‘Yes we’re both a wee bit tired’, ‘would you like to hold him?’, ‘Not really, he’s a bit big?’, ‘Not him! The baby!’, ‘oh aye … eer yes I’d love to’ Two minutes later and I was holding my nephew. I’d have said in my arms but at arms length would be closer to the mark ‘he’s not an unexploded bomb’, ‘right right … eeeer so like this?’ Shirley turned him through 180 degrees ‘that’s probably better’, ‘oh yeah right I see now’
The wee lad was now correct way up and nestled in the crook of my arm. I gazed down at his rosy face. All of a sudden I was beginning to ‘get’ this blood is thicker than water malarkey. Cos if I’m being honest up until this point in my life most every bairn I’d ever seen was exactly the same; a mini pensioner. Stick a cigar in their mouth and you’d have the spitting image of Winston Churchill. But wee Robbie felt different. I mean he looked exactly the same as all the other new sprogs, but he somehow felt different.
In any Childs defence you’re never going to look your best after you’ve just been born. Who would? You’ve been tucked up indoors nice and warm for the last 9 months. Patiently dividing from a single cell, cleaving yoursel into yet more cells, gastrulating (which doesn’t sound nice) then differentiating yer shiny new cells into tissues and before ye know it yer forming fancy things like limbs and heids and all the other complicated paraphernalia that makes up a bairn.
Hard graft all that cell division but at least ye get free central heating, food on demand; without even having to think about it. No need to go to the bother of chewing and swallowing it all arrives in optimum concentrations and quantities. Throw in the rent free/mortgage free accommodation, no commute to work in the morning and life’s pretty sweet you’d have to agree. Well it is until some complete git pulls the plug. Bang! Waters break and soon after yer getting sucked down a plughole.
I mean think about the process people. It’s a long time ago and ye probably don’t remember (if ye do I’m very worried) but try to imagine……
If you were shoved very slowly through a narrow rubber aperture whilst having seven lumps of keech knocked out of you all the way; you’d look less than happy. Add the indignity of being pulled the last couple of feet by the application of large metal tongs hooked behind yer lugs and yer just not going to take a good photograph. And what is your reward after ye’ve endured this traumatic experience and made it to the outside? To the Promised Land? A smack on the airse; can ye blame the bairn fer greeting.
Anyway I still think Robbie looked a bonny lad and I’m not even the faither; am only the uncle. It seems there must be some strange genetic witchcraft at work after all because I wasn’t even fibbing when I said it ‘Aye he’s a bonny lad …. Fraz? …. Shirl? ….’ Zzzzzzzzzzzz
‘Looks like Ma & Pa are sparked out Robbie’, ‘lets see what’s on telly’, ‘Ah now this is what we call football; first thing ye need to know about this is that footballers are overpaid mincing primadonas’, ‘Now Rugby on the other hand …….’
Doei
<< Home
