More tapped than taped!

Tape 3, originally uploaded by mcloud.

I have spent three hours on a train – an hour more than usual for the trip from London as there is a landslide at Chipping Sodbury – I always thought that name was made up, I imagine it as some sort of cross between St Mary Mead and Dullsville.

I have DVT of the arse from sitting on a train and in meetings all day with the only light relief being a brief moment when we discuss MP Paul Flynn who is complaining about the lack of “good news” reported by charities. We all agree we hate the depressing adverts on TV as we watch the telly to get away from the world we work in – a world that can be depressing. Our pet peeve at the moment is the child abuse ads – we’d like them to stop. Full stop. “Her uncle makes her do things she can’t understand” the narrator says. Like what I ask myself – Algebra? Long Division? Conjugating French verbs?

There is good news: a pound a week can pay the Dogs Trust not only to look after a stray dog but get it to be your best friend and write you letters – if they can teach a dog to write a letter for a pound a week they ought to take over Learning Direct! Or perhaps they can teach Algebra and sort out the problems above!

When I finally get home I watch the channels with less adverts but my reverie is disturbed by a sort of crackling noise coming from downstairs. I sit bemused – what can it be? Is someone trying to break in? No, it’s too quiet for that. Bacon sizzling? No, can’t smell it. It’s a sort of crackly noise like plastic or something being ripped. I ponder a bit more – then I have the notion it could be the crackle of flames – is something electrical burning?

I rush (artistic licence there – as saying that I rushed is like saying a bus shelter could rush!) – I rush towards Jack’s room where the noise gets louder - has he knocked over the fan heater – is the crackling the sound of seared flesh?

Oh no, far more bizarre – I find him sellotaping the door handle, winding yards and yards of the sticky stuff round and around the shaft. The crackling is the noise of the tape being unwound.

“It doesn’t stay closed!” says Daddy by way of explanation.

“How will that help?”

He doesn’t know but looks shifty and guilty standing in his shirt, knitted sleeveless jumper, underpants and slippers, holding the smoking gun masquerading as a huge reel of cellotape. No point arguing, so I give up and go back to watching TV while mentally adding to the list another job to fix when he’s dead – the list already includes replacing the replacement UPVC windows that he bought for the back of house and slinging out the hideous doorbell that arrived with a remote bell contraption that can scare you by suddenly ringing in a different position around the house.

I’d like him to stop. Full stop! (Actually that’s an exclamation mark but what’s a little punctuation between friends)