Farewell then, 2009. Next year the girls hit double figures and turn 10, the age at which children generally (so we’re told) stop putting marshmallows up their noses.
I’m not sure if I’m feeling relieved or nostalgic right now.
Archive for the 'Funny' Category
Hannah to Nicola: “Mummy, do the numbers 33, 34, 35 and 36 occur to you?”
Nicola: “Occur to me? What do you mean?”
Hannah: Y’know, do they ring a bell?”
Hannah is standing half in her wardrobe. She is “getting ready for bed“.
Nicola: “No, not particularly.”
Hannah (producing theatre ticket stubs with a flourish from within the wardrobe): “High School Musical seat numbers!”
Nicola (slapping forehead): “Of course…”
There’s been a fascinating and seasonal legal case developing at home this month which I thought you might like to hear about. The case was brought by Lauren (“the Plaintiff”) and facing her across the courtroom is the formidable legal mind of Hannah (“the Defence”). Sitting in session is Judge Dad. The case concerns two chocolate advent calendars purchased by the Plaintiff and the Defence in November 2008.
The substance of the Plaintiff’s case is that, subsequent to the purchase of the two calendars, it was discovered that the Plaintiff’s calendar (Milky Bar-themed) has only 24 doors, whilst the Defence’s calendar (High School Musical) has 25. The Plaintiff is therefore requesting an extra chocolate on 25 December to address this shortcoming.
The Defence’s argument (presented in the most robust of terms) is that this is “well not fair”, since both calendars were selected through free choice and in the absence of duress. The Defence finds it plainly unacceptable that the Plaintiff should subsequently request special treatment in respect of circumstances which, it might reasonably be argued, she brought entirely on herself.
The Judge, after careful deliberation and consultation with his judicial colleague Judge Mum, ruled in favour of the Plaintiff and ordered the court to obtain a packet of Cadbury’s Chocolate Buttons and distribute one such to the Plaintiff on 25 December.
The Defence leapt to its feet to object but was swiftly overruled by Judge Dad who was running late for work.
However, subsequent investigations carried out by the Defence as part of the appeals process have revealed an intriguing twist which was not disclosed to the court at the time of the original case. Looking at the back of each calendar it was discovered that the Plaintiff’s (24-door) calendar has a net weight of 85g, whilst the Defence’s (25-door) calendar has a net weight of only 80g. The Defence has therefore mounted a dramatic counterclaim, stating that not only should the original ruling in favour of the Plaintiff be overturned, but it should be reversed, with the award now directed towards the Defence.
There followed unruly scenes, during which the Judge was obliged to clear the court.
The Plaintiff is currently preparing its appeal case and is thought to be considering a “well not fair” plea: controversial, to say the least, in light of the line taken in its original prosecution.
The Judge is currently ensconced in his chambers, searching the Internet for one-way tickets to Mexico.
This from Lauren last night, in the car on the way home from school:
Daddy, I’ve just made this up, right: imagine there’s this girl, right, and her name’s Suzie – I don’t even know why she’s called Suzie, I’ve just made it up! – and she’s asleep, yeah, and she’s dreaming, but in that dream she’s dreaming, and in that dream she’s having a dream, yeah, and in that dream, dreaming, and in that dream, dreaming, and in that dream, dreaming, and so on, right, until she gets to, like, one-hundred-and-eleven dream, and in that dream… she’s thinking about little doggies because she really loves doggies.
That’s pretty much word for word. (She really did say “and so on”!) Note the lack of full stops because, as we all know, full stops are where you pause to take a breath.
Back when this blog started, almost 4 years ago, I’ll admit I was entertaining some rose-tinted notion that, as time went by, the ratio of getting-ready-in-the-morning to full-on-conflict-resolution would improve. I probably thought that by the time they were, say, 8 years old, they might get washed and dressed most mornings – or even just some mornings – without requiring the intervention of Nelson Mandela and a United Nations peace-keeping force.
Ha!
That 2005 version of me was an idiot. Nowadays I’m far more realistic about the scale of the task we face. If you want a picture of the future, George Orwell might have told me, imagine a small foot stamping deliberately on its sister’s foot – forever.
Last week’s case in point came from Lauren, just as I was getting out of the shower.
“Daddy, Hannah said I have breasts!”
I went into their bedroom to find them both inspecting each other’s naked chests. (This was, I should point out, after some 30 minutes of “getting dressed”.) I told them to stop being silly and get ready but instead they chose to have a discussion on the differences between:
- breasts
- boobies
- nipples
- willies
I have to admit it was all rather fascinating, even if I got a bit lost in the detail: I’m pretty clear on the difference between boobies and willies, less clear on boobies v. breasts. In any case, the consensus after a few minutes of robust debate seemed to be that they both have (or sort-of have) items 1-3, but definitely not item 4.
“Don’t we, Daddy?” said Hannah. “Don’t we?”
The path of least resistance beckoned. “Yes, girls. Now get dressed.”
“Aha!” cried Hannah, turning to Lauren with a triumphant finger in the air. “You breast my case!”
The girls have recently devised an ingenious classification system for chins. Frankly I’m wondering how we as a species have come so far without it.
Pinch your chin between your thumb and forefinger. If it forms a cleft, you’re a Baby’s Bottom. If it just sort of bulges out, you’re a Fat Cherry. For some reason the Baby’s Bottom seems the desirable chin-type to have, to the point where the Hannah and Lauren will carefully create a chin-cleft with another finger before submitting for official adjudication. Although interestingly, anyone else caught trying the same thing is clearly the worst kind of chin criminal and is instantly branded a Fat Cherry.
Here are the results from our family. So, what kind of chin is yours?
From Lauren at tea-time tonight:
Imagine if you had two rabbits, yeah, and they were both called Penny, and you were dropping one of them off at the train station, right, and then her owner said, “Let’s go and pick up Penny,” but you thought she meant Penny the pasta!!
It turns out she was referring to penne. Hannah laughed so hard she almost choked.
The girls continue to hone their joke-telling skills, using me as their unfortunate foil. This morning’s selection came once again from Lauren.
Joke 1
Q. How do you make anti-freeze?
A. Lock her in the fridge.
[Aside: One of my earliest memories is wondering why this joke got such a big laugh when I didn't even understand it. The reason, it turned out, was because I was asking "How do you make granny freeze?". I was just wondering where Lauren got such a well-polished joke from when out tumbled another one.]
Joke 2
Q. Why did the prawn go out with the fig?
A. Because he couldn’t get a date.
I loved that one, especially the nicely random prawn touch.
It was at this point that Hannah came running in, clutching the Puffin’s Brilliantly Big Bumper Joke Book, and shouted, “No, Lauren, it’s prune!”
Sorry the blog’s been so dead recently! I thought I’d try and liven it up a bit with this video I put together a few years ago which I’ve just uploaded to video-sharing site Vimeo. I think you’ll like it… 
The Happy Adventures of Hannah and Lauren from Mark Whitaker on Vimeo
Hannah came wandering into the room the other day. Maybe I’m only saying this with benefit of hindsight, but I’m sure I was aware of Lauren hovering just outside the door.
“Daddy,” said Hannah, “what would you rather have had: girls or boys?”
Well there’s only one way you can answer a question like that, and Hannah knew it.
“Ooh, boys,” I said, dreamily. “It’d be great! Just think, we could watch Star Wars every day, we could…”
“You’re fired!” said Hannah, spun round and strutted out of the room, where she and Lauren proceeded to fall about chuckling.
Since September the girls have been at junior school (I think that’s 3rd grade to US readers). The change in them has been amazing: they’re just drinking up facts and information like… well, like things that drink up facts and information, I suppose.
This morning, as they were getting dressed, they wanted to know about mammals. No, actually, that’s a lie: Hannah wanted to shave her arms because they’re “all hairy” and we sort of managed to divert the issue by talking about mammals. I told them all mammals have hair all over their bodies.
“What, even pigs?”
Yes, I said, even pigs.
“Even whales?”
Even whales. (Please don’t correct me if I’m wrong: I’m a parent, not a zoologist. Remember the primary aim here was not to educate, it was to prevent shaving.)
“Even monkeys?” And so on.
I asked them if they knew the two other things that all mammals have in common. They ummed and ahhed for a bit. Nicola hinted it had something to do with babies.
“They all like babies?” said Lauren.
No, we said. Think about what they give birth to…
“Kittens?” said Hannah.
I think at this point we gave them the live young vs. eggs thing as a freebie. (It was getting close to school time.) This just left the milk thing.
“Think about the little piglets we saw at the farm,” I suggested.
“It’s got something to do with boobies…” hinted Nicola.
“And babies…” I added.
“Oh, I know,” said Hannah with a confident nod, “babies don’t have boobies!”
“And neither do piglets!” chimed Lauren.
Genius.
The King awoke one morning to the sound of great commotion coming from the drawing room beneath his bedchamber.
“Oh bother,” thought the King, “whatever can be the matter?” And without further ado he swung his legs out of the bed, slid them into his royal slippers and reached for his royal dressing gown.
On entering the drawing room the King was confronted with the most distressing of scenes. The Queen was sat between the two Princesses, both of whom were a-wailing and a-howling as if the sky had just fallen down. The poor Queen was trying to calm them with kind words, but seemingly to no avail. “Things break, my darlings,” she was explaining to her daughters as the King entered the scene, “things always break.”
“Now then!” announced the King gruffly (for there was little that pleased the King less than being roused from his slumber by the silliness of his Princesses), “what in heaven can have caused such a terrible hullabaloo?”
“Oh Papa,” cried one of the Princesses, whose name was Lauren, “our shoes, Papa!” She was scarce able to speak through a face that was a veritable mask of misery and mucus. “Look at our shoes!”
The King cast his glance in the direction of Princess Lauren’s outstretched finger and there he beheld two pairs of little dancing shoes, each shoe in the most wretched state of disrepair. He crouched down to inspect them at closer quarters.
“And pray what,” he inquired at length, “has turned your little Highnesses’ royal shoes to such sorry, ruined articles, as might be found in any of the paupers’ houses down in the village?”
There was a pause and then the other Princess, whose name was Hannah, said quietly, “Dancing, Papa. Too much dancing.”
The King thought for a moment. As a ruler he was feared throughout his Kingdom, but he had rather a soft spot for his little Princesses, and he had to admit, their dancing did always seem to fill his heart with the lightest and warmest of feelings.
“Tell me,” he said to the Queen, “does not the merchant in the village, Mr Tesco, sell dancing shoes?”
“I believe he does, my dear,” replied the Queen, but behind her the two little Princesses were nodding so vigorously that the King could tell at once that the answer was beyond doubt.
“And please, Papa,” said Princess Hannah, “I believe that Mr Disney in the centre of Trafford also sells the most beautiful dancing shoes!”
“Yes,” chimed her sister, “at eight ducats a pair!”
“Eight ducats?!” exclaimed the King. “Do you believe me to be made of money? Perhaps you fancy that, when I turn the tap in my bathroom of a morning, it is not water that flows forth from it but ducats!”
The Princesses went rather quiet again. “Well my dear,” said the Queen, “you are the King.”
“Very well,” sighed the King, “so be it. Have one of the servants ride down to the village and inquire at the premises of Mr Tesco and Mr Disney about new dancing shoes.”
But his pronouncement was not met with the joy the King had expected. Indeed, he had rarely in life seen a threesome of more downcast faces.
“But my dear,” said the Queen, “we have no servants.”
“No servants?!” roared the King. “What madness is this? I am the King!”
The Queen responded with an embarrassed shrug.
“Very well,” said the King, “in that case fetch my valet, Richards. He will not receive the news at all well, but Richards will have to ride down to the village to fetch the shoes.”
“Richards does not exist, my dear,” said the Queen, scarcely meeting his eye. “He is a mere figment of your imagination.”
The King looked about him in sheer astonishment. He was beginning to wonder if he had indeed been woken up at all this morning, or whether he was in fact still in his warm feather bed in the grip of some horrendous night fright. He rubbed his eyes and pinched himself firmly on his royal rump, but alas, none of it seemed to alter the situation. At length he groaned in despair.
“I can see I have no choice,” he grumbled. “Princesses, dress yourselves promptly. I shall ride you into the village myself, to the premises of Mr Tesco and, if need be, Mr Disney.”
And there was great rejoicing.
I came down for breakfast this morning to find the girls practising writing their names backwards.
Lauren: Daddy, from now on my name is Nerual! [pronounced to rhyme with Beryl]
Me: OK Nerual.
Lauren: And your name is Kram!
Me: OK.
[Perfectly timed pause]
Hannah: You can just call me Hannah.
Hannah and Lauren established a revolutionary Pregnancy Post Office in our living room today. It’s like a normal Post Office, but where the postmistress (Hannah) is also a trained midwife. It’s the kind of diversity I feel all Britain’s post offices have been crying out for.
Two conversations overheard this morning. First, Before:
Lauren (on toy mobile phone): Hi, is that Hannah?
Hannah (also on toy mobile phone, about 1 foot away): Yes
Lauren: Are you a nurse as well?
Hannah: Yeah, I am actually.
Lauren: Good, ’cause I need your help. I’m having a baby!
Hannah: OK. When’s it due?
[Thud of Lauren hitting the floor]
Lauren: RIGHT NOW!!
And then, After:
Hannah: There you go, there’s your little baby.
Lauren: Is it a boy or a girl?
Hannah: Er… well, it’s just a baby really.
I’m beginning to doubt this postmistress’s obstetric qualifications.
I can’t believe it’s been so long since I last shared the girls’ jokes with you (over a year now!). Time to make amends with an absolute belter from Lauren this morning.
Lauren: Daddy, do you want to hear a really bad joke?
Me: OK.
Lauren: OK, so… what’s the difference about a witch…
Me: Between, Lauren. What’s the difference between.
Lauren: Oh yeah, OK, right… what’s the difference between a witch and…
Hannah: A biscuit!
Lauren: Hannah!
Me: Hannah, don’t interrupt, let Lauren tell her joke. Go on Lauren.
Lauren: OK, so, right, what’s the difference about a witch…
Me: Between.
Hannah: Stop interrupting Lauren, Daddy.
Me: Shush, Hannah.
Lauren: …between a witch and… erm…
Hannah: A biscuit!
Lauren/Me: HANNAH!!
Lauren: Hang on, it’s on my joke book… [fetches joke book]… Oh yeah, right: what’s the difference between a wizard and the letters K, A, S, M and E?
Me: I don’t know.
Lauren: One makes spells and the other spells MAKES!
It’s all in the timing.