Not A Happy Bunny

Little things are annoying me. My sons are annoying me, although they are not little things, except perhaps for Lukas.

Is it not strange how Andrew maintains the tidiness of his room to levels not generally associated with fifteen-year-old boys (even homosexual ones), yet thinks nothing of leaving every other place he randomly inhabits in the house in a state of confusion and dismay? Andrew generally cooks his own meals, which - being vegetarian - usually means a heck of a lot of preparation as vegetables are not renowned for their ready-to-cook status. Preparation leaves the detritus of peel, stalks and other inedible bits. So once Andrew's meal of the day is complete, he has two options, one to sweep said detritus into the bin, the other to leave it coating the chopping board and the space next to the cooker. Guess which option remains his favoured one, despite multiple moans from yours truly?

Why does he think (and Gabriel and Lukas and now, Colin) we possess a miraculous, self-loading dishwasher? Why are pots and plates and mugs and glasses and cutlery left on the work surface above the dishwasher? Is it expected that such elements of the act of consumption magick themselves via teleportation into the belly of the cleaning device?

And of course, when the family run out of pots or plates or mugs or glasses or cutlery, whose fault is it? Who gets the dirty looks? Who is make to feel ridiculously like a magnificently petty criminal just because Lukas is forced to gulp down a can of Shandy Bass without his preferred usage of a tumbler?

Likewise, why is it my fault when a flummoxed Gabriel rushes downstairs with three minutes to go before the school bus arrives, questioning me for explanations why his rugby kit, which has lain crumpled and possibly spawning whole civilisations of dirty microbes on his bedroom floor all evening, has not completed its usual miraculous transformation into a pressed and cleansed garment safely hidden within his chest of drawers?

And where does it say that Lukas is only obliged to do homework after not one, and not two, but four reminders from his concerned-for-the-boy's-education father? And since when has homework evolved from a considered hour or so's contemplative poring over a selection of dusty, mildew-smelling textbooks into five minutes of whipping something down from Wikipedia, tactifully altering at least two words as not to arouse the suspicions of the teacher?

And why am I the last person who gets to spend any of the proceeds of his hard work (okay, half-arsed work) on himself? Why does Andrew require £50 a week to spend on deodorant, aftershave, shower gel and other various smellies? Why does Gabriel require a daily ten pound note to buy one pound fifty's worth of muck from the school canteen, and why does he have to buy the latest release from his latest favourite shouty-rock combo every flipping weekend? And why do I have to pay for it even though I'd never listen to such rubbish even if you suspended me upside down over a trough of freshly-disemboweled rat carcasses and threatened me with a bloody dunking? And why does Lukas have a need for fresh items of sportswear or footwear seemingly every couple of days? And why does everything he wants have to be so brain-sweatingly expensive?

Even the Ripley's started getting on my nerves. Why won't she eat the plain and simple bog standard cat fodder from the local supermarket? Why does she insist on finely chopped venison served with a jelly of fois gras and a jus of liquidised mouse guts? And why cannot she perform her ablutions outside with the rest of cat-kind, insisting instead of laying eye-burning turds in a trayful of rose-scented kitty-litter? And then why is it my job and nobody else's to dispose of said pooh-sausages before the whiff of them annihilates all vegetation within a three mile radius and irreversibly heightens the threat of global warming?

And as for me? Why is it that no matter how little I eat, how many vegetables and fruits I consume instead of kebabs, burgers and pies, how much diet coke I pour down my throat instead of fruit juice, how many potatoes and bread rolls and cakes I leave rotting and mould-coated in the cupboards because even thinking of them adds inches to my wobbly thighs - how come I do all this yet the weight creeps off my bulk at one nanogram per decade? And how come if I *do* succeed in losing a spare ounce, if I then treat myself to say - half a hob-nob with my suger-free and dairy-free coffee, do I immediately put on fourteen stone?

And what happened to my mojo? I used to at least make a half-arsed attempt at keeping fit. I used get up some mornings and put on my trainers and t-shirt and shorts and then run about a bit instead of switching on my laptop and typing 'why exercise is bad for you' into Google. I was using the excuse of cold and wind and hail and rain and snow, but now every time I do leave the house the weather always seems perfect for a spot of alfresco exercise. So why am I not doing it?

And why does Colin have all the fun? Although I can only ever guess at the amount of fun he is having as I seldom see him at weekends. And this is hardly fair is it? He has no job, he has just lost his children (although he never mentions them, which troubles me deeply in the dead of the night when I've run out of other things to think about) and his marriage has collapsed and he sleeps on an unsuitable sofa at his brother's, yet he seems perfectly happy about things. Perhaps it's all bravado; perhaps he spends the weekends kipping under park benches, creating an illusion of being a party-animal for my perverse benefit. Or maybe every weekend is a shag-fest for him and I'm just jealous?

Who knows? Who cares? Well, I for one, obviously.