I knew this whole Grease thing was a bad idea.
Hannah and Lauren are having an unexpected day off today due to a burst water main at school. We’ve also brought one of their class mates home with us, so I’m working upstairs while the three girls play in the living room.
I just went to check on them and, of course, they are watching Grease. Their friend bounded across the room and grabbed my hand.
“Mark! Mark!” she shouted, “Isn’t it right that you need to have sex to have a baby?”
Hannah and Lauren looked on with wide-eyed curiosity.
“Erm… what… well…” I explained.
“My mummy told me,” she continued. “I know what having sex is, but don’t worry, I won’t tell them.”
I have now escaped to the spare room upstairs where I’m sitting with the door closed, typing this and planning my next move. Frankly, I’m terrified. They’re only six! This is all Travolta’s fault. Would sex have reared its ugly head if they’d been watching Wallace and Gromit? Of course not.
Oh hell, someone’s coming up the stairs. Perhaps I can climb out of the window and make my escape? Help!!
This is just one of the terrifying questions I’m anticipating now that the girls have discovered the institution of girlhood that is Grease. Actually, “discovered” is a coy understatement: they’ve recorded it and have taken to watching it several times a day. I’d never seen it before and I had no idea just how adult the dialogue is, not to mention the pelvic gestures.