Bananas

You don’t need me to tell you, things are getting weird.

Example one: People everywhere have started cleaning behind the sofa. And it’s an emotional roller coaster. The severed heads of toys. A cherished remote. Enough change to purchase five sheets of black market toilet paper. That book you wanted to read. Cutlery. A plate. DVDs. Some now worthless tesco vouchers. A gut wrenching amount of dirt. And… something weirder. Six banana skins in various stages of mummification. One looks like some sort of hideous giant spider. Six banana skins. Six. You shake your head, perplexed. Six. At least it explains one of the layers of stench in here. Six, though. Six.

Example two: Parents everywhere are getting to know their children better than they ever intended. My two year old son, a kind of proto-intelligent chimp-human hybrid, shrugs when I show him the banana skins, and mumbles “I don’t know.” He looks as if he is going to add something profound, then he lets out a long fart, chuckles, and wonders off.

My eldest son, who’s entire purpose in life is to annoy his sister and make me look foolish, points at his sister. “No I didn’t!” She screeches. My daughter likes to organise impromptu theatre shows, lessons, quizzes, and group activities which she initiates with a teacherly clap of her hands. This is very useful given the poor quality of my home schooling. I am extremely sceptical that she has been throwing banana skins behind the sofa. To my amazement she suddenly rolls her eyes and sighs, “Alright. It was me.”

“But… why?” I ask, shaken.

“It was quicker than taking them to the kitchen.” She explains, as if to one of her slower students. I have to admit, she has a point.

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