The Superhero Complex

superdadOur hero (that is I) returns home from a day of saving the world (although how in the name of heck a planet can get into so much peril I do not know).  Clad in blue lycra, a flapping red cape (even with no wind) and underpants complete with a pair of socks stuffed down inside – and a gilet, because it can get cold at 18,000 feet, what with there being no oxygen and all.

I step in, to note that Bynx the Cat (my adversary in this world, other than Dr Evil) was having a good nose around my daughters bedroom – Monkey, Nuzzle and Scratch along with MBW are nowhere to be seen.  I decide to act quickly, grabbing the water pistol and heading in to deal with the cat.  Spraying Bynx quickly seems to send her scuttling – and with good reason. 

My x-ray vision catches sight of a hamster behind a dolls house – it had escaped from its cage.  I corner Pinky Dinky Doo into the dolls house, planning on shutting the doors to keep it there when I notice the doors and windows are missing (damned squatters).  I grab at the hamster, keep not to let it escape into the jaws of a cat – one minute its accomplice, helping it break free in the same vein as a murderer in Redditch, the next turning on it like a newspaper reporter hunting for a scoop.  Pinky Dinky Doo, unaware of my good intentions, takes its jaws to my right hand, ripping apart the skin leaving my super hero blood dripping out.  “Golly Gosh” I exclaim (!), trying to put Pinky Dinky Doo into a pocket to make him safe whilst I fly him up to the top of his cage – glancing up to the top of the 16ft structure identifies they broke open the transportation tube.  Pinky Dinky Doo is not keen on this idea though, so I try to nestle Pinky Dinky Doo in my left hand. 

“Oh no,” squeaks Pinky Dinky Doo in shock and gnaws at my left arm, leaving my hands crimson in a shade that matches my cape.

“Oh my word,” I exclaim.  There is no time to loose – my superhero blood is toxic to any living thing on this planet.  I quickly place the escapee into a laundry basket and place it into a secure hold wet room. 

Just then MBW walks in.  “Oh my word,” she cries.  “What happened?! Oh no!  I think I might faint.  Phone the Police! No! Phone the Mayor!  Put out the Bat Signal.”

“Hold it there, fair maiden,” I boom in deep tones that Terry Wogan dreamed of at 06:30 in the morning in his Radio 2 days.  “Fear not, t’is but a scratch.  I shall go to get some Super Hero Attention from a Medical type person in a moment.  But first, I do not want to change the colour of our good friend Pinky Dinky Doo.  Please, step in there and return him to his home.”  I indicate to the strong hold.  “And the Bat Signal is for Bruce next door.  We need to talk later.”

“Oh, ok,” says MBW, stepping into the secure area.  She picks up Pinky Dinky Doo and steps out of the green zone, nodding to the Police Officers who stood guard outside the room.  (Hang on – was the Police officers a step too far?  Ignore them.) He looks at her adoringly and goes with her, squeaking a thanks to her as he goes into his cage – forgetting it was I who saved him.

WP_000018I fly to Super Hero A+E, get 15 super hero stitches down my left arm, a superglue in my right arm and return two superhero hours later – which is actually 2 seconds in Human time.  MBW looks and admires the sutures as my arm heals before her eyes – a Super Hero Benefit.  “I’d better make the tea then,” she says, skipping into the kitchen in her 1950’s dress.  “Go fetch Daddies’ slippers, someone!”

“Hold on,” says I.  “What about Pinky Dinky Doo?  He is not safe with the villain around.”

“I’ll put a call in to the Mayor via Facebook.” She murmours.  “What a good thing you were here…” 

The Mayor responded quickly.  “I have found a good home for Pinky Dinky Doo.  A lovely lady called Sheila will be arriving tomorrow.”

“A good home?  What constitutes that?” Asks MBW. 

“If they don’t turn up in a van marked Sheila and Sons Furriers, it’s good enough.” I boomed.  “Good work, Mayor.” 

And so Pinky Dinky Doo goes off into the sunset, safe in a new secure home.  Our hero’s work once again complete.

The Animal Phenomenon

I’m not a fan of animals – I can handle Pinky Dinky Doo, the pink escapologist hamster that belongs to Monkey.  I can just about handle going to the zoo.  But a kitten (which will turn into a cat (which will turn into a hungry cat that will want to do adult cat things (which will either turn into more cats or massive vet bills)))?  Not a fan, as Facebook would put it.

But we got a kitten following Harry Asbo – a cat who was so short lived in our house as he came, stayed and returned to the cat sanctuary – because MBW wanted one.  Don’t know how – I think MBW’s friend’s uncle’s cat had some, free to a good home – a good home being defined as anyone who doesn’t actually run a taxidermy or fur clothing business. 

So, along came Bynx.  Not my choice of name – I wanted to call her Tyler so that the Pinky Dinky Doo thing was complete, but she does make a little “binka-binka-binka” sound as she runs along, so I’ll live with the name.  That is not my gripe. 

My gripe is that, through no fault of MBW’s friend I have to stress, it was not her fault, the cat came with fleas.  Actually, the cat, which is charging around like a loonie at the moment probably also came with a few loose screws too, but more of that in a minute.  Because Bynx had taken a liking to our bedroom deep-pile carpet, I now need to get shot of it – ching! £200 for laminate flooring. 

So far, the mad fur ball who has just come chhhaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrging through into the living room, ran around in a large circle and then slide on the floor into the sofa in a way that would make an ice skater proud, the flea bag has cost me £240. 


So, the reason for this post?  No reason – I just wanted a whinge!


This morning I made breakfast – veggie sausages and hash browns.  Monkey, Nuzzle and Scratch all decided to join in and shovelled my breakfast down their traps quicker than I could find a knife and fork and say “do you mind?”

But thats not the issue.

I had a little bit of sausage left on my plate that Monkey was eyeing up – I nodded to her and said “go on – since you’re my best friend.”

“Thank you,” she replied, “but you’re not my friend.”

Shattered world by Evelyn Patrick

Shattered world - this is my world.

This was news to me – my world is pretty much shattered already.  I didn’t know what to say.  I had to pull myself together.  “Why?” I asked – not overly sure I was going to like what was coming.

“Because you’re old.” She replied, in a tone that was matter of fact and not up for messing about.

“Wait… so that means… no. What about Mummy?”

“Mummy isn’t old.  Mummy is my friend.” The reply came from a mouthful of sausage – clearly this conversation is guilt free.

“So, if I have a party, do I invite my friends then?” I asked – this is now curiosity – its not going to get much worse.

“No.  You don’t have any friends,” comes the response.  It could get worse.

“Who do I invite then?  Do I just sit there on my own?”

“No.  You can invite DadDad.  He’s old too.”

Nice.  Memo to self – Monkey is not to organise my future parties.  And I do have friends.  And I’m not old.

I’m not.

Flipping family

Father-in-law told me this morning that he’d told a joke to my mother-in-law, and she had rolled her eyes and asked if it was one of mine.


There are some people who would pay good money to hear me repeating other people’s jokes… I suspect my in-laws aren’t them, though…

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