Friday 21 March 2014

Half a Lent.

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It started with an explosion. I couldn't help it. After three weeks all the frustration came bursting out like a time bomb. I've had weeks of sleepless nights, and on occasion's I had no sleep at all because of my chest infection; with it's irritating tickle that drove me crazy every time I laid my head on a pillow, and for the last four nights my son has been waking up between three, and four, in the morning coughing like he smoked sixty cigarette's a day. Also for the last three weeks I've not had the enjoyment of escaping from family life, and getting lost in my own little world; while I enjoy a pint or two with my friends, because in a moment of madness I declared I would give up all alcohol for lent.

Then there were the five days spent poisoning my lungs with paint fumes while I carried out the tedious, and boring task of painting our hallway, plus the staircase too. The fuse was lit on Thursday evening when I went around to my father's home to pick up the children. I love my Dad, and when he asked at the beginning of the year if we could hold his 75th birthday at our house I was honoured. I have been planning it ever since, and was going to gather the whole King Clan to celebrate his big day. As he has now surpassed the average life span of a British male I thought it doubly special that the whole family celebrate.  So when he announced to me, while the children got ready to leave, that he wasn't now bothered about a party, and was even thinking of going away for a couple days instead, it felt like he had stabbed a knife into my heart.

When I arrived home to say I was pissed off would be an understatement. My daughter was first out the car and through the front door, quickly followed by my son, while I came in carrying all their coats.

I asked my daughter to take her shoes off at the door; she ignored me while she chatted away about her day.

I asked my daughter for a second time while she plonked her bottom on the stairs; she ignored me while she carried on chattering about her day.

My wife asked our daughter not to lean against the wall, and to be careful with her bag; she ignored her while she carried on talking away like only females can.

My wife for a second time told our daughter to be careful with her bag, and to take her shoes off; but no she ignored her.

I told my daughter this time for the fifth, and finally occasion, in a determined daddy voice to take her shoes off, and put them in their proper place.

She stood up, and grunted at me like children on the cusp of becoming teenagers do; then tossed her school bag against the wall. Sticking out of the top of it was her flute case. It's made of hard plastic, and as it hit the side it took a chunk of new paint out of the wall.

That was the moment when the bomb went off. I exploded. The front door was still open, and all the neighbour's would have heard me as a swung around, holding the coats in the air, and shouted at the top of my voice just like Charlton Heston in the final scene of the Planet of the Apes; 'I have had enough, I have had a F@uk#ng enough.' I flung the coats on the floor as spittle flicked from my mouth.

The family were shocked into silence as three weeks of pent up frustration came bursting out, and for the next half an hour I slowly calmed down as my rage was vented. My daughter burst into tears, and my son followed suit. Afterwards I felt bad. We try not to swear in front of the children, but sometimes it just seeps out. After supper the gilt just increased even more because the reason why my daughter was so excited (and thus not taking any notice of us) was because she had helped to set up a sponsored fun run at her school to help raise money for Sports Relief Day.

I gave her a cuddle and said sorry. I bought off my gilt by doubling my sponsorship money I had promised, and then went to make my peace with my son.

On Friday morning I kissed the children off to school and family life was back to normal, but like I say there is always a but, I couldn't take, or should I say I couldn't allow another three weeks of alcohol free frustration to build up inside of me to the point it would effect my family life.

So as you read this blog I will have returned from the Fat Cat and Canary pub after a couple, or three, relaxing pints with my friends. I will have completed twenty days of being sober, and as I'm not even half the person Jesus Christ is, then I think half a lent is still good going.



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