My friends, I fear all hope is lost.

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.

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:

1. breasts
2. boobies
3. nipples
4. 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!”

Today is the 3rd of December. They’re supposed to be going to bed.

The next 22 days are what makes or breaks a man. Wish me luck.

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.

So far they have only learnt one note: that piercing one you get when you blow too hard with all holes uncovered.

Shriek! Shriek! Shriek-shriek-shriek!

Mike Oldfield this ain’t. I am approaching the point of despair.

A word from the wise: if your children ever come into posession of recorders, buy ear muffs or leave home.

To be fair, though, they were pretty attentive and most of the distractions came from football-related questions. Here are just a few that I was called upon to resolve using my expert football knowledge.

Q: Why are lots of the football players little children?
A: It’s only the grown-ups that are footballers. The little boys just come on at the start to sing for a bit then they go off again.

Q: Why is that man holding his heart? Is he poorly?
A: No, he’s singing his national anthem so it’s a bit like he’s saluting.

Q: Why is that goalkeeper running around and playing football and not staying in the goal?
A: That isn’t the goalkeeper, he’s called the referee.

Q: What’s a referee?
A: He’s like the teacher. He makes sure that everybody’s playing nicely.

Q: Is England the ones in white or the ones in yellow and blue and red?
A: Neither, England play tomorrow. This is Poland in white and Ecuador in yellow.

Q: Are Brazil playing?
A: No, just Poland and Ecuador.

Q: What was the goalkeeper holding up then?
A: He’s the referee, sweetheart. It was a yellow card, which means somebody’s been naughty, like tripping someone up. If you get two yellow cards then you have to go off. Or if you’re really really really naughty he shows you the red card and you’ve got to go off straight away.

Q: Do we want Poland to win or the other ones?
A: We don’t mind really. But hey, who will we want to win tomorrow??
Q: Brazil?
A: No, England! [slightly peevishly - we must have been through this a million times now]

Q [about 10 minutes later]: Is there an orange card?
A: No, just red and yellow.
Q: So what happens if someone’s really really naughty?
A: They get the red card and they have to go off.
Q: I thought the red card was for really really really naughty?
A [after long thoughtful pause]: There’s just red and yellow, Hannah.

Q: Why does the goalkeeper wear those big gloves?
A: Because he’s the only one who’s allowed to touch the ball with his hands. [This rash assertion was successfully challenged during a subsequent throw-in.]
Q: So the rest can’t touch it with their hands?
A: No, otherwise they’ll get a yellow card. [Is it yellow or red? I'm past caring.]
Q: What if they touch it with their legs?
A: That’s fine, legs are OK. And heads, and chests. In fact they can touch it with any part of their body except their arms and hands.
Q: Any part?
A: Except their arms and hands.
[There is sniggering]
Q: Even their widgies?
A: No, I think that might hurt. Just watch.

Q: Daddy, what’s the off-side rule?
A: Oh look, girls, bed time!

OK, I made up the last one but I swear the rest are genuine. 2 matches down, only 62 to go…

Hannah: I’m Darth Vader! RAAAARRGGHHH!!! (Note: this is a Darth Vader who wears a nightie and roars like a tiger. No heavy breathing required.)

Parents “shriek” with “fright”.

Lauren: I’m Barbie!

Parents sigh with relief.

Hannah: I’m Darth Vader!!

Lauren: No-o! I’m Darth Vader now!

Hannah: OK.

Lauren: I’m Darth Vader!! RAARGGHHHHH!!!

Shriek!

Hannah: I’m Darth Vader!! RAA…

Lauren: No! You’re Barbie!

Hannah: But I want to be Darth Vader!

Simultaneously:
Lauren: Mummy, Hannah won’t be Barbie!
Hannah: Daddy, it’s my turn to be Darth Vader!

And so on, forever. It’s funny how quickly we can be out of bed some days.

You can see how finely balanced this thing is.

We’re expecting a full-on assault at home time tonight, with stories of how much fun they had, and how healthy they feel, and how honesly, the eggy sandwiches haven’t made them parp any more that usual. It’s going to be tough. Any suggestions for a counter-attack will be welcome, but please make it quick.

Example 1: I pick Hannah up in the air – for no particular reason, other than that she’s small and cute. Hannah squeals with delight (oh yes, that’s why I do it). Lauren appears from the next room pleading, “Daddy, can-you-do-that-to-meee???”

Example 2: Whilst brushing Lauren’s teeth I let her stand on my feet. Lauren chuckles. Hannah is there in an instant, the plaintive cry already forming on her lips: “Can-you-do-that-to-meee???”

Example 3: It’s dinner time. Lauren is already at the table but Hannah is dawdling. I go and grab Hannah and swing her through the air towards the dining room. Lauren abandons her plate and jumps down from the table, with the heart-stopping realisation that she has just missed out on a momentary split second of fun. “Can-you-do-that-to-meee-Daddy???”

I could go on. It happens several times a day. It got so irritating that I started pre-empting it with my own rendition, complete with That Whingy Voice. All it’s achieved is that the girls now ask it in an imitation of my imitation of their whingy voice, which is at least twice as grating as the real thing.

I am convinced that, in the moment a soon-to-be-Lauren was plucked from her mother’s womb, a still-ensconced soon-to-be-Hannah took one look around her and thought, “Can-you-do-that-to-meee???“

Hannah: “Daddy, Lauren just said ‘pupils’!”
Lauren (in protest): Hannah started it!!

Of these four types, three are recurrent within the collection. The fourth, however, is unique. There is only one of the Fourth Type Of Spoon. Its comrades have long since departed for the great cutlery drawer in the sky. It is the lone survivor.

This fact has not escaped the attention of Hannah and Lauren, who have accorded this spoon the highest of honours. It has become… The Special Spoon. For eating yoghurts there is simply no contest: the Special Spoon is The One.

Note: Two girls. One Special Spoon. (Tell me if I’m ladling this on a bit thick.)

All manner of deviousness can now be observed at yoghurt-eating time, as the girls compete for the ultimate eating experience in which there can be only one victor. For example:

Lauren: Daddy, Hannah’s got the special spoon!
Hannah: But Lauren had it yesterday!
Lauren (starting to cry): No I didn’t, Hannah did!
Hannah: I didn’t! Honestly, Daddy!
Lauren: And she’s got the special pants on!*
Me: Right, Hannah, if you’ve got the special pants you can give Lauren the special spoon.
Hannah: Gwmph. (Sound of spoon being popped into mouth.)
Lauren: But it’s got her germs on it now! (Tears.)
Me: Hannah, give it to me. (Spoon is seized.) Lauren, shall I wash it for you?
Lauren shakes head woefully.
Hannah (brightly): I’ll have it, Daddy!
Me: Hannah, get a spoon and eat your yoghurt.

After all this ritual kerfuffle, you would be forgiven for imagining that the Special Spoon has some kind of compelling aesthetic properties that set it aside from mere normal spoons. Perhaps it’s got a handle in the shape or a cat? Or a picture of Barbie on it? Perhaps it has a unique shape to the bowl that somehow makes yoghurts taste better?

Nothing of the sort. And here I throw open to you, the readers, the Special Spoon Challenge! The first person to correctly identify the special spoon from the collection below wins a very special prize!**

* Oh yes, there are special knickers too. They’re tatty and pink with a yellow cat on. Don’t get me started.
** (May contain germs and traces of yoghurt but you can always wash it.)

Lauren: Daddy, what makes three and three?
Me (blearily): What…?
Hannah: Six!
[Much chuckling and cackling ensues because they beat me to it and I am a dunce.]
Hannah: Daddy, what makes… four… and four?
Lauren: Eight!
[Shrieks of laughter at expense of village idiot.]
Lauren: What makes… nine and nine?!

[Pause.]

Hannah: Daddy, what makes nine and nine?
Me: Eighteen.
Hannah: Oh.
[They chuckle for reasons best know to themselves.]
Hannah: What makes… ten and ten?
Lauren: Infinity?
Me: No, twenty.
Lauren: So, what makes a hundred and a hundred?
Hannah: Infinity?
Me: No, two hundred.
Lauren: Is two hundred and two hundred inifinity?

And so on. I can see this taking some time.

Yesterday started with Lauren hurtling into the room some time around half past six. “Mummy!” she chimed. “Is today my real birthday or did I dream it?”

“No,” came a groggy reply from the pillow next to me, “you dreamt it.”

“OK!” And off she skipped.

¹ “Lots, and I was just enjoying one of them. Her birthday’s not until December. Go back to bed.”
² [Long pause.] “Good question. I’ll get back to you on that one.”

For the record, here’s how a normal game of Guess Who goes:

Player 1: Does your person have a beard?
Player 2: Yes.
Player 1 knocks down all people without beards.
Player 2: Does your person have red hair?
Player 1: No.
Player 2 knocks down all people with red hair.

And so on. But who wants to play like that… when you could play like this?

Hannah: Does your person haaaaaaave… [long pause]… a beard or a moustache?
Lauren: A moustache.
Me: No, Lauren, just say yes or no!
Lauren: OK, no.
Nicola: You mean yes?
Lauren: Yes. A yellow moustache.
I hang my head in despair.
Nicola: Right, come on Hannah.
Hannah: Sooo… moustaches… down?
Nicola: No, think – their person has got a moustache. So…
Hannah: So people… without moustaches… stay up?
Nicola: No, they go down.
Hannah: Oh yeah!
Hannah and Nicola knock down the moustaches. I suspect Nicola’s knocking down the non-yellow ones too.
Me: Right, our go Lauren.
Lauren: Has your person got a bit of a funny face?
Hannah: Yes!

Give me strength…

Googy covers a whole range of bases. It’s a nickname! It’s a substitute for any other noun! It’s a fast-acting catalyst to monkeying about! For example:

Hannah: Googy!
Lauren: Yes, Googy?
Me/Nicola (through gritted teeth): Open… wide…
Lauren: What is it, Googy?
Hannah: Er… Googy! (helpless mirth ensues)
Me/Nicola (curiously unaffected by helpless mirth): Come here NOW and BRUSH YOUR TEETH!!

Googy has become one of those mixed blessings of parenthood. On the one hand, the girls just wouldn’t be their cheeky selves without it. On the other hand, they wouldn’t be such a pain in the arse without it either. Every now and then there’s an incident that swings the pendulum very much one way or the other. One such incident happened a couple of days ago, as I was still in bed. There was a little conversation going on just outside the bedroom door which I had the good luck to overhear:

Lauren: Googy?
Hannah: Yes, Googy?
Lauren: What’s the French for Googy?
Hannah: Er, it’s… (pause to adopt correct accent)… Gaugisse.

Praise be to Googy. Where would we be without it?

Me: Lauren, stop annoying Hannah.
Hannah: But Daddy, but she said my baby has got fat eyes!
Me: Lauren, just stop that.
Lauren (grumpily): OK. (Back to a sotto voce mumble) She’s got a blue coat, Hannah.
Hannah (mumbling): Yeah, she’s got a blue coat. And red cheeks.
Lauren: And pink lipstick.
Hannah (in delight): Yeah, pink lipstick!
(Pause)
Lauren: And fat eyes.
Hannah: NO LAUREN!! DADDY!! LAUREN SAID MY BABY’S GOT FAT EYES!!!
Me (distractedly): Girls, can you just keep the noise down while I blog all this…

So, it was clear the girls needed to be correctly indoctrinated as soon as possible. Well in advance, I alerted them to the fact that the DVDs would be released shortly, and managed to arouse some kind of passing interest, albeit in the arrival of what they called “a new R2-D2 film”. Clearly there was no time to lose.

On the day the DVDs arrived I came home as early as I could from work and the girls and I sat down, with an appropriate sense of ceremony, in front of the telly. By about half an hour later, any thought of educational progress had been abandoned and I would happily have chewed my own leg off for just a few hours on my own with my DVDs, my memories, and a kitchen foil tube for a light sabre. Here’s what happened.

Every morning, then, we go through the same basic conversation:

H/L: Ow Daddy! Ow! Ow! It’s hurting!
Me: Keep still! I’ll be finished soon! [combs faster]
H/L: OW-WUH! [starts crying]
Me: Nearly done. How do you get all this sticky stuff in your hair anyway?
H/L: [tearful] I don’t know, Daddy!
L/H: [i.e. sister of the combee] I didn’t do it…
Me: Well girls, if you want to have such lovely hair you’ve got to keep it away from sticky things, OK?
H/L: [through sniffs] OK, Daddy.
Me: Because if you’ve got lovely hair we need to comb it to keep it clean. If you don’t want to have your hair combed, you’d need to have short hair like me.
H/L: OK, Daddy, I promise.
Me: Good girl. And then there’ll be no tears tomorrow.

[Repeat on daily basis]

Picture the scene: the hall of our house is approximately 2m square and contains two doorways, a cupboard, a wooden chest, the bottom of a flight of stairs, me, two small girls and around 300 pairs of shoes. I’m stumbling around trying to zip up coats, apply hats etc. Lauren, now fully equipped and ready to go, is standing right in front of Hannah, wearing a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression and bobbing up and down holding her skirt. Hannah, who I am trying to get ready, is ignoring all my barked commands because she’s too busy stamping her foot and shouting “LAUREN! STOP CURTSYING!!!”

The only thing that gets me through moments like this without having to go for a nice lie down is the fact that I know Simon and I were just the same, if not much worse, when we were that age. We’d use anything to annoy each other, and it was always something innocuous so that the one doing the annoying could shrug innocently at Mum and Dad when it came to the hour of reckoning. I’m just disappointed at our lack of range that we never thought of curtsying.

Hence this blog. It’s therapy, really. Please bear with me.