Turning Over a New Leaf

August 29, 2009

My Dad is currently looking for a job in Canada. There would appear to be only two jobs available in the whole of the country. One is a teaching job, which is good, because my Dad is a teacher. The other is packing chocolates for Ferrero Rocher. At night. For $11 an hour.

“I’ve found a teaching job here!”, says my Dad, excitedly.

“Where is it?”, asks The Mushroom, as she busies herself doing whatever it is she does all day which apparently prevents her from getting a job, but as far as I can see just involves holding The Baby, kissing The Baby and dressing The Baby.

My Dad pauses. “Baffin Island.”, he says.

“Where’s that?”

“Erm”, replies my Dad, “North of here.”

“As in, Quebec?”, asks The Mushroom.

“Bit further north”.

“Newfoundland?”, The Mushroom asks as she approaches the computer where my Dad has up a map of the area.

“Erm, no, a bit further north than that”, replies my Dad.

“There isn’t anything further north of Newfoundland.”, says The Mushroom, staring at the map, “Further north of Newfoundland is called The Moon.”

“It’s here”, he says, pointing to an island suspiciously near Greenland.

“Sod right off “, yelps The Mushroom, “That’s the Arctic. I’m not moving to the frigging Arctic.”

“But I’m a teacher, honey”, my Dad pleads, “Please don’t make me pack chocolates.”

“And we’re from Hull, sweetheart”, replies The Mushroom, “Please don’t make us become Inuits.”

For once, I’m with The Mushroom. I love my Dad, but it doesn’t make a huge amount of difference to me if he packs chocolates. It does, however, make a massive difference to me if I have to move to the Arctic. For one thing, I don’t know a lot about polar bears, but I would hazard a guess, based on the fact that they eat seals, that a short haired domestic cat taking his morning constitutional outside the family igloo would not pose a massive threat to them, food wise. Personally, I’d take my chances with the Ambassador and pack those chocolates.

A potential move is not the only change afoot. The Mushroom appears to be getting into Tupperware.

Now, I don’t strictly know if being into Tupperware is part of the hippy code. My only real experience of hippies is The Hippy and whilst she does love her Tupperware, I suspect that is not, however, a strictly hippy thing to do, what with hippies allegedly being into an alternative lifestyle and free love and recreational pharmaceuticals so thus not caring too much, one would assume, as to the freshness of their tofu. One would have thought they would be far too busy hallucinating and doing rude things with their friends in a field somewhere. Maybe being into Tupperware is just a woman thing to be, as The Cave Troll and my Dad certainly don’t give a frig for its merits, and I doubt That Black Dog or The Baby are arsed about it either. In any case, The Hippy and The Mushroom love the stuff. There would appear to be no end to what can be ‘saved’ and put in Tupperware and labelled. Half a cup of yoghurt. Some salsa. A single olive. All in Tupperware.

The irony of this is that, before The Baby, The Mushroom hardly ever opened the fridge, let alone compartmentalised it into labelled Tupperware containers. I’ve met seagulls that did more housework than she did. She got up, smoked several cigarettes, went to work, came home, drank wine, smoked more cigarettes and went to bed. Now, she is putting three courgette slices into a dish and labelling it, as if whoever picks up the see-through dish won’t recognise the vegetable. Perhaps when she went to work she was this organised, and I just never saw it. Who knows. I know it’s unsettling and I also know that my Dad was non too pleased to find three courgette slices on the plate with his sandwich at lunch time, which he apparently ‘had to eat’ otherwise they would go to waste. Lucky That Black Dog eats courgette.

If that wasn’t enough excitement for one day, this afternoon brought with it a discovery regarding the Power of the Porch. It’s more than just the place where The Hippy smokes her special cigarettes. Whilst sunning myself and keeping an eye out for the mouse that lives in the tree, I noticed, for the first time, one of the bushes growing there.


I recognise that leaf formation. My Dad had enough tosser friends from university who wore clothes emblazoned with this image. And it – or something very like it – is growing ON THE PORCH. I appear to be living in a den of iniquity. Or, to be precise, near a porch of iniquity.

Sometimes, I look about me, and realise I have come a long way from that pet shop on the Holderness Road.


2 Responses to “Turning Over a New Leaf”

  1. annablagona said

    you sure have my lad

  2. Lorie said

    too funny tupperware girl. Next thing you know you’re going to be hosting a tupperware party to meet more ‘friends of tupperware’… lol. Why not Baffin Isladnd then? Is it cause its in the sticks? (tongue firmly in cheek)


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