I. Fecking. Hate. Whistles…~ northernmum

Sat on the beach feeling the warm bask of summer on my face I couldn’t help but feel smug.  My children played sweetly beside me, my husband hunted crabs to amuse the children.  Boats bobbed merrily in the ocean and all was well in the world.

Until…

“Peeeeeep” a vicious screech sliced through my ear drums causing them to rupture in agony.

I staggered a little from my perch on the beach and sand started to creep into my crevices leaving me with an itchy unfeminine feeling.

“Peeeeeep”

The ungodly noise struck again, it set my nerves on edge and made me want to find the noise and murder its owner.

“Peeeep.”  I jumped again and sand flew up my shorts filling my knickers.

One last time and then I turned and saw the little b*stard who was trying to summon Satan with a sound.

“Look what I won in the slots Mum” cried twin boy with a jubilant tone “it’s a whistle; peeeeeeep.”

I. Fecking. Hate. Whistles.

I hate them almost as much as I hate recorders. Stupid pointless plastic bits of tat designed to test mothers patience and to increase sales of over the counter Valium.

I am not totally anti whistles, they serve a function for dogs and trains, but not kids.  Social services want a total ban on smacking, I say make plastic whistles illegal and smacking will go away all on its own. Twin boy knows how I feel about whistles, so consequently he knows to blow it and leg it.  This does not improve my mood.

But on this sunny day in Cornwall, God, for once, was on my side.

We stepped off the beach in hunt of a eating establishment, the peeping continued and my ear drums were sobbing.  Every attempt to grab the sodding green plastic howler was scuppered by twin boys clever footsteps and cat calls of;

“It’s an outside toy mummy, I am outside.”

There is no worse feeling than your six year old quoting your rules at you and obeying you but defying you at the same time.

But I digress…

We paused for a moment to lean over the railings to look at the harbour below.  Beneath us was a paved landing area with steps leading down to the seafront.  Twin Boy slid into the space next to me silently raising the whistle to his lips. I visibly flinched as I heard…

“Peeeeeep” which was followed by a satisfying CLUNK.

He dropped it, he dropped the fecking whistle.  My heart did an Irish jig as my face adopted the classic ‘oh dear, poor you’ expression.

“My whistle!!!” screamed my boy as I petted his hand sympathetically, he made to throw himself after the 10p toy but before his feet could start to pound a large shape moved forward beneath us.  The shape had shaggy black hair, brown hairy arms, large angry legs and dirty huge hands.  The shape bent down and picked up the whistle.

Twin boys face lit up with a smile, “they will throw it back won’t they mummy?”.  In response my face looked like I had been smacked by a wet kipper as I waited for the kindly large shape to toss the item of my nightmares back into my little boys hand.

Then to our joint amazement the large shape with shaggy brown hair, brown hairy arms, large angry legs and dirty huge hands dirty turn around, he didn’t even look in the direction of where the whistle came from, instead he raised the whistle to his lips and started to blow.

I. Fecking. Hate. Whistles.

The plastic shriek continued to blow and as a double insult twin boys rivalled it in noise with screams of anguish combined with heavy snotty sobs as he realised his mummy was never letting him hold his prize again after the rather drunk homeless chap had fixed his gob round it.

“You’re a thief, a dirty, dirty, thief” cried my melodramatic offspring as we pulled him away from the scene of the crime, “and you are a mean mean mummy, you didn’t even like my whistle’.

The kid had a point, but then as we started to drag him down the street to the sound of whistle a car pulled to a halt beside us and PC Plod leapt out and promptly dashed down the steps to the landing and arrested the large shape with shaggy brown hair, brown hairy arms, large angry legs and dirty huge hands.

“Gosh” said Twin boy distracted from his tears “did you call the police mummy, do you love me that much?”

I will leave you to guess how I responded, but needless to say I finished the day a heroine in my sons eyes.

And the fecking whistle?

Its being held for evidence of course!

 

Like Northernmum?  do you know you can like the blog on facebook (over there on the right) or sign up for email alerts (over there on the top right) and then everytime I blog it will pop in your inbox!