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Another productive day of writing and making stupid online content, at least until Catie had to go to Leicester to do the final gig of her brilliant stand up show.
Then my job turned into stopping them killing each other and/or spending too much time on screens. At least neither of them died.
After forgetting about Valentine's Day and St Skeletor's Day, I almost forgot about Pancake Day, but luckily
I saw the clip from Maid Marian on social media and remembered in time.
Ernie and me went to the local shop to buy flour and eggs and lemon (turned out we had all of these already) and then Phoebe whisked everything together and we made three thick pancakes.
Ernie wanted sugar, lemon, maple syrup and spray whipped cream on his and who was I to stand in his way. Ernie and I have developed a nice tradition that whenever the whipped cream can comes out of the fridge I first spray some into his mouth. I read somewhere that something like 75% of spray cream is consumed in this way. I presume that was a joke, but also it can't be that far off the truth. I like to pretend the technology was invented by Margaret Thatcher, but I think that was actually Mr Whippy ice cream that she invented and that even that is a mildly apocryphal tale.
For some reason, probably because she has a sense of decorum and is not a disgusting monster, I can't remember ever doing this with Phoebe. But every time the can of cream is out, Ernie gets a mouthful. And I hope it's a tradition that will continue long into the future and when I am 90 and he is 40 and anyone gets the cream out of the fridge, I will use my boney arthritic fingers to fill his gob with processed cream.
If nothing else it's an effective way to get rid of that slightly dodgy bit of cream that gets stuck in the nozzle and then turns grey. I think Ernie would agree, that if I kill him with can cream that that is a fitting way to go.
When I am gone, will a can of cream be a source of sorrow to him? Or will he just cut out the middle man and fill his own face with cream until the can runs out?
Either way, it's our thing. It's the way we connect. I hope it never ends. Even if he becomes lactose intolerant.
Fathers and sons must have something. This is what we have.
