Radio radio

That is a fetching guitar riff. A fetching riff on the radio

But we are home-side of the radio, we are Karaoke at home, we are teenager readying himself for stardom, band name is chosen, rock stare is natural, lip is snarled, rock influences have been listed, now is the time to rock for the first time. A guitar strap is strapped.

There are teenagers about to strum.

A Guitar plays on, a riff sounds a bit....well...un riffy..... I am actually struggling to hear a riff, I do hear a kinda sound. I am not struggling to put my hands over my ears. I donna want to be unkind, but its cruel to be kind. There is a circuit breaker to pull in a what can and will be described as coincidence.

The teenage years may be long and require ear plugs and my retirement may require hearing aids.

We are going unplugged before MTV come knocking.

Is that something edible in my soup?

Is that a plane. Is that a train. No, no and no its not even a fly in my soup, it is spoon. Granted, that is normal you may say.
But it maybe abnormal for healthy eater that it is not moving much between liquid and mouth.

To cut a long story short. Is that another vegetable soup, wifey? I do not care this spillage from an organic farm is supposedly healthy.

Is that a spoon in my soup? Is that a spoon in my mouth? Not bloody likely. I am a meat eater. I am a hunter gatherer. I want my meat and do not fob me off with that silver spoon, the peasants will not eat cake in the pa Pryce house.

Organic, or vegan, or meat-equivalent. Times have changed in teenager culinary needs. It has morphed from MucBurgers and make no mistake I like my MucBurgers and super-fat-me-carb-intake to a teenager politically correct eat what you like as long as it is green E-non-coli B- for-bu ....

For the teenager twosome green now means green, the dark side has morphed into a deeper shade of green. This eco-friendliness has gone bad when a leg of lamb is not turned around a glistening spit but turned down.

There is a ray of hope. Small mercies that there is life in the teenage taste buds, as yet as far we know, although confirmation is hard to find in the secret world of the teenager. I am an investigator and I have found silver wrappers in the dustbin area, it if my spidey sense is still spidery, seems to confirm that as far as brown succulent chocolate is concerned the teenagers are still indulging it up with best of them.

So back to plot, today diet is important to the teenage mind and I recognise in a humane teenage world that no animal or an amphibian or bipedal neathanderathal has been hurt in the making of this chicken nugget. Probably MucBurgers may have a better chance rather than a loin steak in this category. But even a minority portion of meat in my Chicken nugget is probably, and I may be wrong, involving a little bit of killing. And again I am no expert and I have not been on the receiving end to verify this, but killing probbaly does hurt a little.

I am a father in a state of fad-induced sunday dinners to satisfy the teenagers. Meat and two vegetables is not cutting it. The teenagers are cutting tofu and green stuff masquerading as real carbohydrates

A new scene - a new time ~ a coincidence of time - a moment of destiny guided by the hand of your God of choice ~ a teenage own-goal ~ an adult looks on ~ a boy outside a fast food restaurant - a girl - girls - peer group pressure and the mercury is rising - a boy that is a teenager -that is my boy - a father looks on ~ a spy~ a boy entering restaurant partaking of what my boy has described as poison.

A boy about to forego principles for the sake of getting the girl. A father walks on silent in the knowledge of being there and done that with whiskers on.

God bless testerone. Go boy go.

And I should be thankful that Pa Pryce spidey-sense nostrils are not detecting a suspicion of nicotine on the breath......yet.... green to nicotine phase appears to await.

One up.....to the Pryces

If losing was a sport this was my boy's sport.

We may say losing brings character, but once in a while one likes to think winning brings character too and the odd reason to smile.

Today we troop along to support another folly in "well played and hard luck", making well meaning noises on a losing streak of some weeks eventually gets cheesy.

There is a blonde kid, two years too young to play with the big boys, there is the blonde kid, the one who should be wearing a bib instead of a kit, the blonde kid who was there to warm the bench because a big kid failed to turn-up. This is not good.

But against the odds, against the grain but not against the run of play all things came good at least for the first ten minutes or so. Losing was still a maybe. Hoorah.

And be damned a half time lead, the blonde kid played. The blonde kid starred, be second damned. Be second hoorah'd.

The Pryce family glows, but there is a fear, still a fear of the future, the fear is the second half, a fear this is too good to be true. A fear that we are forever blowing bubbles of dreams gone west, of what was once pork is now called smoked ham The second half starts.. The blonde kid grows in confidence if not in stature.

My boy is like an astronaut seeing space where land-lubbers see only the horizon. The blonde kid lives off space, space my boy creates by the art of bulk and strategically placed elbows. The coach gave a nod of approval as bulk helped brains to score again and indeed again. The second half by third damn is like the first half. Fears are quelled as mathematical possibilty for the come-back is timed out.

A third hip hip hooray. We share in the triumph, we are happy, the family unit unites in victory. Sharing the moment of a smalltown, junior league, relegation battle victory at sport, a shared joy an appreciation, a permission to applaud, sometimes life can be good.

It may not be a cup, it may not be best in the league, but teenager has done good and we parents are lucky. We are smiling. I think I'll buy a cuppa tea for all.

Retro to Go

Where ~ in the name of your choice of God(s)~are my........

I am growing old, my boy is growing up. My boy is achieving new heights, my height.

This is new territory - I could pass him on my hand me downs. I could save serious money for 6 months. My boy is about to become retro-to-go.

I let him have a T-shirt that would have me suffering accusations of mutton dressed as lamb. I may give-up a jacket that is black, yes, black leather biker cool, old-school that is never out, I have somethings in black too.
Finger-less mittens may be handed over. A woolly pully that has seen better years is handed over, but is decidedly teenage chic by the very fact of the elbow hole is cool and it has seen better years.

But this is inter-family social sharing going wrong, because some of my things are not hand me downs. Some things I want strapped to the pa Pryce body mass. A very large body mass.
Its a case of Hanging on a flippin' cotton pickin' moment, sonny Jim.
There are things that I want not only handed back. I want never taken in the first place.

To set the scene, I am about to feast on a breakfast that does not quite do justice to the word feast. Buttered toast is not full English. But its faster than a sunny side up with rashers on the side.

I am about to dress before I enter the badlands of economic crisis. I am about to face the cruel world alone again. I am about to earn the family crust. I may have been worn down by the years like the elbows on an old pully. But there is rat race awaiting with a cheese with my name on it.

I have my new-ish suit to hide my larger than yester-year gut, my get in touch-with-my- feminine, comfortable-with-my-masculinity pink shirt riding on sloping shoulders; my two tone pink-on-pink tie nooses itself around its choice of chins; but and double but, I am being called upon to go to work without socks.

I am an executive without socks, someone has stolen my socks. My socks are MY socks. I want my SOCKS back.

I will have a tantrum. Pa Pryce's nickname is not sox-less and by darn there is a teenager whose nickname will not be sox-full.

By all things in common law justice I will have a pair of socks.