Today looked pretty, but it’s cold and miserable. It is in every way the perfect duvet day. The Little Perfect One is obviously several years away from discovering the simple joy of a lie-in, but this morning we are also on military time.
At 1:00pm this afternoon, we must arrive for lunch with Hoobiz’s parents. Hoobiz has a sweat inducing fear of being late.
Hoobiz adores Bat and Simona, but I think that it’s their tardiness that he finds most alien. Strange, when you consider all of the clocks, but one thing my parents are not, is punctual. I believe it is a trait, (which I have inherited), rather than a flaw, but I do understand that it can still be a tad annoying.
One thing Hoobiz’s parents are, is punctual. As a child, Hoobiz was drilled by his father: ‘To arrive on time, is to be late. To be 5 minutes early, is OK. To be 10 minutes early, is on time.’
Now, to me, that sounds ridiculously complicated and really not that catchy. I mean, why tell your child that you want them back by 10:00pm if you really want them to be home by 9:50pm?
Yet, for me, the punctuality business is probably the least alien thing about Hoobiz’s parents. Unfortunately, I suspect it’s exactly the same for Hoobiz.
Honestly, I was so shocked when I first met them, as I didn’t think people like that existed outside of bad 70’s sitcoms.
Helmut and Bridget are the all too naked embodiment of clichéd parenting. A mother who moans at her children for ‘never phoning’, check. A father who should own the domain name www.undermyroofyoulllivebymyrules.yuck check. A father for whom nothing is ever good enough, check. A pew in the church of ‘Its My Way or The Highway’, check. An outdated pair who seem old before their time, check.
I’ll try to give you a little bit of background, but it’s tricky, as for Helmut and Bridget the past is not a printed sheet. No, the past it’s a rough handwritten note that can be amended at will.
As far as I can gather, Hoobiz, his brother Axle and sister Fiz spent their childhood in a constant cycle of re-location. Bridget claims to ‘love travelling’, but I’m suspicious that you could only love this type of lifestyle if your true love was packing. Hoobiz attended 15 different schools before he was 14 and this was all seemingly to do with the fact that Helmut was ‘in the military.’ How, why, or what he did, ‘in the military’, remains distinctly unclear.
For Helmut, this flux is his ultimate achievement, as he and his family can be introduced, as ‘Citizens of Earth’. From another mouth you might consider this the ultimate in PC speak, but from Helmut, well, it’s just Helmut. My father-in-law has about 25 stock phases, jokes, stories or facts which are suitable for every occasion without exception.
One of his favourites is to announce that he and Bridget are SKIs. This is, he will tell you, through buttock-wobbling laughter, ‘Spending da kid’s inheritance.’ If you were outrageous enough to suggest that £9.50 isn’t really a legacy. Then I suspect he would hit with another of his special gems; ‘Ya, it’s true. I am not Rockerfella, I’m just the other fella.’
When not claiming to be the world’s first International, Helmut likes to declare himself a German-Australian-turned-Brit. However, if there’s a rugby game or cricket match then it’s Australia all the way. Also, he believes that there is only one way to cook and that’s the Barbie. Today, despite the freezing temperatures, was no exception to the Barbie Rules, well, rule.
One thing I haven’t yet mentioned, is that although embarrassingly prudish and chronically judgemental, Helmut and Bridget are nudists. I know it’s horribly prudish and stupidly judgemental of me, but it’s not exactly what I’d hoped for with in-laws.
The one great thing about the Barbie is that it means Helmut wears an apron. The winter Barbie also means that Helmut and I are separated by patio doors. There he was, this afternoon on the decking in socks, boots, pinny and Santa’s hat, turning steaks that looked like worn-out odour-eaters. He usually proclaims this his natural habitat, but today there was unrest beside the fire. Helmut is a man of conspiracies. Basically, they are all out to get him.
Unfortunately, now it seems the Vegans have found him. ‘Soy!’, he shouted disdainfully at the flaccid fillets of meat. ‘Soy!Soy!’, he repeated, now holding out the dubious beef on the end of his enormous fork. ‘Meat is not what it used to be!’, he announces to half of Pilculton. ‘This is soya rubbish! Soy! Soy! The meat is being hijacked.’, he bellowed and that was that. Helmut muttered for a bit, but neither Bridget or Hoobiz acknowledged any of this outburst. It was just as if it had never happened.
Bridget is the Mistress of ‘it never happened’ and certainly the favourite concubine of ‘Oh I can’t remember my darling’. Fortunately, she’s more of a part-time nudist than Helmut, but that’s one of her few great qualities. She is Mrs Don’tfire. I’m serious, apart from cleaning, wearing a few clothes and updating Farmville, she doesn’t do anything. She doesn’t drive, she doesn’t work, she doesn’t like to hold a conversation, she doesn’t remember and she doesn’t do anything new as it looks a bit hard. I do realise how awful that sounds and I’m wrong, there are two more things that she does with aplomb; criticise and manipulate.
Yes, yes, I’m a complete cow and should try to ‘clean better’ so that might Mother in-law might feel less ‘revolted’ by our house. Oh, and of course I must wear less black and smile more, so that Dear Bridget might find me less ‘satanic’.
Actually, this is probably the nastiest thing that I have ever said about anyone, but Bridget is a huge motivational tool for me. I’ve heard it said before that the people who cause you most problems are the ones that represent traits you dislike in yourself. All too often I could so easily give up and give in, but then I remember that Bridget is the last person I would ever want to be.
It’s not that any of this particularly matters to me, but what I do find deeply offensive is how they treat Hoobiz. I can’t go into details now as I’ve wound myself up just thinking about it and need to lie down.
Perhaps it’s not that bad. I mean, today’s visit was fairly smooth actually. Sometimes, just sometimes, I do feel sorry for them. Clinging to a history that never actually was and clinging to a hopelessly uncertain future; it must be scary. Yes, I do feel sorry for them, until they cling to something ridiculous. Still, let them cling to the fact that elders must be respected. I mean, if respect was something to be earned, well, it simply wouldn’t be worth the effort! Come on, something strenuous like that? Oh, for goodness sake, let the children do it...
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