Yet another morning of The Usual. With bonus add-ons.
After several “God-friggingg-zilla, where are your PANTS?!” seventeen times, and “Monkey-Frigging-Boy, come and do the dishwasher, NOW!” approximately 943 times, they both felt it important to inform me that their middle names weren’t “frigging”.
Well they are now.
Especially as I noticed, around the three baskets of clean washing waiting to be folded, a HUGE pile of sand. “Sand dune” is probably a more apt description of what fell out of Monkey Boy’s shoe and had settled itself in comfortably on the floor. And all over the floor, or so it seems.
(Also causing me to resent the money the school has just spent on “topping up” the sandpit. I would happily have sold them their sand back.)
“Monkey Frigging Boy! What is this?!”
Leading him to ask me if I’m stupid, as, quite obvioulsy, it is a large pile of sand, and me explaining the merits of rhetorical quesitons and what he intends to do about the Sahara desert in the living room. NOW!
“Humph,” he replies, wanders off to get the largest broom he can find, because the small dustpan and broom is just nor appropriate, and knocks a pair of my clean