We are in the West Country harvesting nature’s bounty of apples, which we are going to turn into cider and cider vinegar (when our cider doesn’t turn out quite as expected).
So far, Si has tried to gas the children with sodium metabisulfite fumes whilst sterilising the cider drums, which led to me rescuing them and placing them away from the toxic steam in a nearby safe tree house. When Si refused to stop the sterilisation process in the kitchen, I threw all his drums into a field and whipped him with fermentation piping.
He then poured the chemicals down the loo which will now kill all the bacteria in Granny and Roge’s septic tank. It’s like pouring bleach on a compost heap – except I think that might explode. It certainly would with sodium peroxide. Anyway, apparently ‘he knows what he’s doing’ because he ‘does it all the time’. This from the man who put athlete’s foot cream on his eldest daughter’s woo-woo!
I placed the children in front of Cebeebies (after the noxious gases had dispersed) whilst we continued our ‘discussion’ in the kitchen. Apparently, I’m over-emotional. However, when he took the girls a snack I heard him say: “Ahhh, a baby foal’, gazing at My Pet and Me, his mouth open. I marched in and said, “Now release sarin gas next to that baby foal, Simon. Because that’s what you did to our baby foals this morning. And after I grew in my own womb!” I ran off crying again and Si snarled something about someone ‘stealing his spear’. He just doesn’t get it. I love our children and only want to protect them from a chemical attack, is that so much to ask?!
Whilst I decontaminated the kitchen, he took the girls to the orchard to shake the trees, letting the apples rain on their heads and wondered why there were yet more tears. He thinks it’s because they are female and that it’s not got anything to do with being hit on the head by falling missiles. He’s just been back to the house to put their cycle helmets on them so he can do it to them again, like some kind of military desensitisation exercise. They are one and three-years-old but he thinks helmets are health-and-safety-gone-mad because ‘HE never wore a helmet when he was pelted by apples as a boy and it didn’t do him any harm.’ What the actual F***?!
We are now at the pressing stage and the hessian sacks ordered by Roge have arrived, courtesy of Amazon. I really need to go NOW, in case he mangles Vita’s paws in the apple masher or lets Sienna play with a random chainsaw. Undoubtedly he’ll play down any injury they incur: “You’re overreacting again! Vita only crushed two of her fingers, the other eight are fine.” Or “I used to play with chainsaws when I was three and I’m okay. (Yes, I lost a brother but people died in those days.)” Oh, and I’ll get the other life-affirming story about the time he was pushed into a sess pit by his father to undo a blockage which was ‘hilarious, even though he got human faecal matter in his mouth and was hospitalised with E-coli poisoning several days later’ because it’s ‘a right of passage’ in Devon.
Hang on – Granny’s just come in with Vita wet through, freezing cold. Until next week…..