There are few things in this life I hate. Sandwich bread not made by Albany is one of them. Particularly in Winter when the butter is harder and thus more difficult to spread, so that a slice after attempted slathering with butter and syrup takes on the look of a crab's bus ticket. This, evidently, is not the look I find myself longing to achieve for The Daughter's pre-considered healthy lunchbox. My fear is, of course, that The Daughter will turn her nose up at said sandwiches and not that the Nosy Parker Teacher will tut-tut me over lunchbox preparations. (On that note, I look forward to The Daughter being taught by a slightly less perfect real human - one who doesn't suffer apoplectic fits over forgotten homework notebooks... "I must urge you, Miss Liner, to ensure that the book is in The Daughter's bag every day. Consider it Our Communication Bible.". Really? A Communication Bible? Where does this woman think this shit up? It's like she lies in bed in her hambone frilled nightie, a quirky little title comes into her head, she gets so excited to the point of - I suppose what normal people would do is touch themselves inappropriately - allowing herself seven extra crochet stitches.)
I also dislike, intensely, toilet rolls that do not unravel with ease. On Sunday The Daughter suffered an injury of such monumental gravity - how we escaped a full-blown finger amputation remains a mystery to me. She was paging through a colouring-in book in a restaurant when an errant page had the audacity to give her a paper cut.
The Daughter: (screeching such that the entire busy mid-morning trade of the breakfast restaurant came to an unpredicted stand-still) It's bleeeeeeeeeding! Real blood! Owwwwwwwww!
After assessing the situation and noting that while there was indeed blood, the fact that a single drop had not yet been formed led me to conclude that the risk of The Daughter bleeding out over my breakfast-in-pita (very soft eggs) was unlikely.
The Pant: Oh dear (munch munch). Stick it in your (wipe mouth lazily with serviette) mouth. That'll make it (pulling cheeks downwards to release bits of bacon and cheese from cheek-gum cavity) all better.
TD: It's bleeeeeeeeding, Mom! (Raising volume to a level I feared may alert the police) I can't put it in my mouth. There'll be blood in my mouth.
TP: (Now aware of on-lookers shaking their heads and doing that tongue-behind-front-teeth click that the Zulu language indicates with a 'c') Oh darling! Might it require amputation?
TD: (Puzzled now, no tears). What's ampitashin?
TP: You're supposed to be crying.
TD: Oh ja! (Wail. Screech. Feel faint from blood loss) Blooooooood! Real!
I got the cue from The Incubator's right eyeball which, when she disapproves of anything, has the ability to grow a fine layer of cactus-like prickles while simultaneously extending on a barbed pole to millimetres from my general face. The hairy eyeball, we call it.
The Pant: Right, shall we go to the bathroom, Precious?
I ushered The Daughter into a room which, by design it appears, has the primary function of amplifying sound.
TP: Let's run it under cold water.
TD: (Fresh wail - deafening) Noooooo!
TP: Toilet paper?
The Daughter, too consumed by injury, simply nodded her ascent to my proposal.
And that's when it happened: The Pant vs (fucking irritating) Toilet Roll.
Wail. Note brand spanking new roll of cheap possibly-pre-used single ply toilet paper. Scream. Attempt at undoing super-effing-glued toilet paper end from roll unsuccessful. Screech. Tear at perforated square. Sob sob. Pull. Bawl. Remove piece so insignificant would be useless in wiping anything larger than an ant's bottom. Fresh wail. Attempt again. Screech. Remove slightly smaller piece. Scream (The Self, not The Daughter). Repeat action several thousand times until I held in my hand enough confetti to celebrate an 80's nuptial. Cry. Notice blood has formed scab. Sob. Until a whole square was released, wrapped tightly around The Daughter's finger. Hug. Kiss. Return to table. Finish chilled breakfast-in-pita.
Toilet roll - 1. The Pant - 0.