Yesterday the phone call came as usual, at about 3pm.
It was Mr Woog with his daily question. “What are you cooking for dinner?”
I told him I was on a 24 hour strike due to the absolutely indescribable mountain of washing that I had gotten through during the day. I was done. We were going to go out for dinner.
At the pensioner hour of 5.30pm we rocked up to our local and most excellent Indian Restaurant. It is only one of a few Indian places that I will eat at. I have had too many bad experiences with bad Prawn Pakora’s in my lifetime. This particular establishment showcases the cuisine of Northern India and specialises in something called a dosai, which is a thin pancake stuffed with spiced potato. It is sublime.
The restaurant was fairly empty, apart from indeed a few pensionary types who were seated at tables nearby.
Dinner was delicious. The conversation during dinner was interesting.
We have always had a “ask the question and I shall tell you the answer” policy when it comes to teaching the kids about sex. You can read about the initial sex talk I had with one of my sons here.
So anyway, Jack asks if I was going to have another baby. I tried to mask my horror but smiled at him and told him no.
Harry basically yelled this out just as the restaurant had one of those silences that are always reserved for when a child has something totally inappropriate to say. And because Mr Woog and I are so cool about these things, when internally we were both shrinking, we explained that that was not the reason.
The reason was that we cannot control the two we have, why would we want to add to the equation.
And then he said something to inappropriate that I cannot repeat it. This signalled the time for the bill. On the walk home, I told Mr Woog he was going to have to have a chat with our eldest son about manly stuff and feelings and hormones. I listened in later as Mr Woog said “That happens to me too son” and slapped said son on the back before turning on the snooker championships.
Excellent work Mr Woog.