18 April 2013
Trying to have a lie-in on a Sunday morning at our home is virtually impossible. A number of factors contribute to this, notably my eight year old brother prising my eyelids open to brandish in my face whatever new foam-dart-firing plastic contraption he’s going to plague me with this week, and my mother banging pots and pans around, and overreacting loudly whenever she drops a fork.
By the time I’ve managed to get out of bed, have a shower and get dressed, I am generally ready to face whatever dangers the A-H household throws at me, usually in the form of the plastic balls that both my siblings bounce incessantly.
Nine a.m. is homework time for the youngest. In other words, my father trying to get the little ball of energy to sit down for more than two seconds, and use his brain; an organ that he has not stirred since he and his fellow chimps were released from their enclosure at primary school on Friday. ‘It’s not faaaaair’ the youngest repeats for the eight-thousandth-three-hundred-and-seventy-sixth time.
The middle sibling has developed a sudden and unexpected longing to listen to some trashy American pop song with extremely rude lyrics, and is playing it at top volume on the family laptop, rapping along with it and gleefully making loud beeping sounds with the youngest whenever the artist decides to let forth a torrent of foul language.
Yep, all in all, not your most relaxing Sunday morning on record.