Thinking of my boy who now has the requisite 2 kids and a mortgage and yesterday’s constrained xmas visitation to the new flat which they’ve just taken possession of.

We had to do the Rapid Antigen tests which were mandated or else we’d be the ones that ruined xmas. Of course, both the missus and I failed … well, we got zero which, these days is apparently a pass.

Anyways, it settled them all down except the daughter in law. Beautiful, creative, and intelligent, she still had to have the windows and doors open anyway. I suppose it was to give the virus easy ingress and egress and no reason to linger.

So, they say there’s really only 7 stories one of which, is The Quest where the proper outcome relies on trust, courage, and belief.

The rest, as they say, will write itself.

—

That stove’s hot boy. Don’t touch it. And with one eye on me and another on the stove he reached for the old Kookaburra anyway. Yeah well … now you know.

I’m haunted by the memory of the day I dragged his sorry 7yo arse outta the surf by his hair. I’d cautioned him but he stripped naked and did it anyway. One minute I’m standing there talking to Chrisso and the next minute I see that face looking at me just before it went under and almost disappeared without a trace. Never told his mother and, I still see that lad’s defiant and independent face today.

Yesterday I saw that face on the grandson who’s not yet 2yo. See we made scones and had this year’s berries that had already been jammed with a dollop of cream. After he polished off the first scone, he looked me and held my eye while one snakey hand reached for another scone.

I looked him back and said, “it aint me you need to worry about mate, it’s the old bugger over there with the apron who’s on your case”. And the lad took a fork and stuck his new scone copying his older sister who had just run her knife through hers from top to bottom.

Reckon I know exactly what both of them were thinking.

Aunty. My daughter. She was there with her girlfriend who I remember from their primary school days. Two Aunties. All play-dough and nose rings and tattoos. Aunty didn’t utter a word until she was about 4yo. Not a bloody peep, and then one day I’m tying her shoes and she gets frustrated and dismissively brushes my hand away, “I’ll do it myself”, she says.

My head spun and I stood up and looked her and she looked me back with that face I was talking about.

So anyway, yesterday I grabbed my own scone and said to myself as I ran the butterknife through it sideways, “I think I’ll cut mine this way”, then dumped a lump of jam and a lump of cream on both halves. My daughter looks me and smiles. Right then, grand daughter who you would have thought was paying no attention at all, cocks her head and flashes that one-eyed look.

She looks her dad (you know how) and cuts her scone my way just like it was her idea all along. Her with the jam spoon was hilarious but it was too much for her dad and he had to swoop.

I chuckled and he looked me … and I looked him back.

And he knew … just like the story said he would.

—

I’ve been all at sea for a decade waiting for this arc to come back around.

The youngest who I kicked outta the house a while back had us over for breakky on xmas day. Nearly cost me my marriage that gambit. Yeah, was touch and go.

The lesbians, they seem to have abandoned marxisim in favour of an internet business and are exploiting other queers’ vanity for money. Forlorn hope for an acting career lies fallen like an offering to late-stage capitalism (xir words, not mine). A hairdressing course because of course, Marx still needs a bloody haircut.

And the boy … LoL

Who’d have thought 25 years ago that in the future he’d be the one playing Spock, and I’d be playing Kirk?

Captain, there’s a 91.4% chance of failure.

It’ll work Spock … don’t worry, it’ll work