‘You’re like indigestion,’ he said to me this morning when I broke out with Justin Bieber’s Baby. It just encouraged me to belt the chorus out louder, grating on a good day, at its worst in the mornings, even with tea.
‘You’re a bad fart! Stop it, please!’ He rolled over and tried to cover his ears with Mighty Thor, the stuffed sheep.
And I was like, baby, baby, baby, ooooh, like baby, baby, baby, noooo!
‘I will kill you.’ He flung MT at me, but missed and hit the cupboard instead.
‘Mighty Thor! Look what you’ve done!’ I glared at him accusingly. ‘Why do you abuse him so?’
Usually he has his earphones and computer games ready when I launch my violent vocal chords, but early morning, in bed, with hot tea in his hands and sleep in his eyes, he is most vulnerable to my sudden attacks.
I changed gears. ‘Okay, okay, no more Bieber,’ I promised on my way to the kitchen to smear the bagels.
But I didn’t say anything about Dolly Parton.
Tumble outta bed and stumble to the kitchen, pour myself a cup of ambition, yawnin’, stretchin’ try to come to life
‘You’re killing me!’ Volume up.
Workin’ nine to five, what a way to make a livin’, barely gettin’ by, it’s all takin’ and no givin’…
He emerged with a pillow. ‘That’s it. I’m gonna throw you out the window.’
It’s enough to drive you crazy if you let it…