Comfort zones - the search for quiet time - the toilet is my sanctuary, defended by things unseen, the unseen forces of last might's curry; however out there, there in the danger zone, where once there was a living room ~ the times have changed, the wilderness has returned. It is wild and unless I'm not mistaken, I will be abused as a slave owner. Out there it is not safe to be an adult of some years standing, to be old out there amongst the sofas is to be yesterday's man. Out there I a m vulnerable to verbal abuse.
I enter the wilderness where once I sat in the big chair with my orb of remote control. Now he sits ~ the teenager ~ my nemesis~, he who loves in a digital world in widescreen and HD. I believe I may have asked my son to make a cup of coffee.
This may have been a clever ruse to regain my chair. A deception, an old-scholl trick, I still can run with the pack. It was a ruse damned to fail, these days I need wood, nails and an art degree in history of Troy to half a chance to succeed.
Instead I was advised by the art of shouting that he is not my slave. I even said 'please', which I thought at least, I should have earned the right to have been despised as a servent owner as in "I am not your servent"; but today his life is that of a someone caught, sold and put to work in the cotton fields.
I had not time to ask for milk before his retort, that would probably have had me defined by Amnesty International as a tyrant taking advantage of child labour and they will probably now list him as some kind of political prisoner. There will probably be a charity concert, a letter writing campaign "Free the Teenager One".
He now returns to his Playstation, unconcerned that a weaker grown man may have cried.
I return to my coffeemaking duties and promises to not be his chauffeur, as long as it does not effect his schooling, his sports and our holidays... I resolve not to drive him to ....well....somewhere....I'm here for the long haul. I will be revenged.