If The Monk was awake right now, no doubt he'd be trying to wrench the Glorious Salami out of my hands. He'll eat anything he's not meant to eat, up to and including leftover chicken vindaloo from the local Indian takeaway. The other day, he was doing an archaeological excavation under the sofa cushions (don't judge, at least it's vaguely educational if I bury things like newspaper scraps down there) and unearthed a tube of Extra-Strong Mints - y'know, the ones that make most normal adults fan their mouths and wince a little? He ate the fucking lot. I was blissfully unaware of this until I went to scoop my dribblier-than-usual spawn off the sofa, and found he was glued to it. I eventually separated baby ass from sofa leather with a sound like flypapers being torn apart, and promptly plopped my minty-fresh son and his flame-retardant mouth in the bath, to the soundtrack of "WHY do you keep doing this to me, you're NOT a nice baby and mama's putting you in the BIN next time bla bla bla (Why Must I Keep Repeating Myself remix)" *deep breath*.
Gabriel seems to live down the doctors' surgery at the moment. I toted him down there yet again a couple of days ago, after his eyes became so bloodshot it looked like he'd been smokin' some sweet, sweet herb. After being diagnosed with hayfever and doing the rounds of the whole waiting room - waving, clapping, shaking hands, signing autographs - we went to collect his prescription.
Our pharmacist is a very nice Italian man, and he's tickled pink by The Monk: "Such a happy baby! He smiles all the time, I love him!" (try experiencing the 'happy baby' for 24 hours, Mr. Pharmacy Man). Because said pharmacist is male, Gabriel couldn't give less of a shit if he loves him or not, so as soon as his feet hit the floor he toddled out of the room. Mr. Pharmacy Man was sad. He tried to summon my wayward boy with clicky noises and plaintive cries.
The Monk wobbles briefly into view, waves his arms and shouts "NO."
Mr. Pharmacy Man's face crumples a little, and mama does the whole "Excuse my kid he can be a dick sometimes" thing as she grabs the meds and the child and runs away. I can't handle hurt feelings, especially when my spawn is the source of it. Poor Mr. Pharmacy Man. I should take some biscuits in for him to cheer him up.
I'll be blogging much earlier next week, because I know you're all straining at the bit to read my thoughts on the sacred institution that is the Eurovision Song Contest. I'll be camped out in front of the TV from start to blood-soaked finish (am I getting confused with 'Battle Royale' now?), notebook in hand - so I don't miss out on any precious nuggets of Euro-tat for you, my beloved pair of readers - and a synapse-disconnecting amount of wine at my side. I might even get me some more salami.
Try not to upset your pharmacists, kids. You might need them after my next post.