Look Away. I am hideous!

For those that have been reading for a while, you would know that I live in a small three-bedroom, one bathroom Art Deco Bungalow, complete with a potting shed where the snakes like to hand out, and a traditional thunderbox out the back.

The structure and smallness of Chateau Da Woog means that privacy is often ignored.

One Bathroom.

We each accept and acknowledge individuals boundaries as to what is appropriate behaviour. Like anyone can brush their teeth while I am having a shower. I am allowed to use the bathroom when Mr Woog is also using it (but I must stipulate here no turds).

If you look at the bathroom door while Horatio is in there, there will be hell to pay.

But yesterday a new boundary was set.

My youngest son, the good one, has joined the privacy club, but in a reverse manner. You see, I got out of the shower last night just as he walked in. He shrieked in horror as his hands flew up to his eyes. He had NEVER done that before.

I raced into the office to tell Mr Woog who, when I told him of this new revelation and revulsion, simply shrugged and said, and I quote directly here now friends, “That’s ok. He lasted a long time…”

Pardon moi? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?


Of course I blame the whole thing on Maury, the Hormone Monster.

If you have teenagers, I implore you to get onto Netflix and binge watch Big Mouth. It is cheaper than going to the therapist.

What’s the nudity situation at your joint?