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Northern Mum

Crossfitting, pancreas acting, single mum to three

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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!

 

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Comments

  1. Mette says

    September 19, 2012 at 7:09 am

    I hate whistles and do my best for my children not to get their hands on them…..

    http://oddparent.blogspot.dk/

    Reply
    • northernmum says

      September 25, 2012 at 8:32 pm

      Burn them all I say!

      Reply
  2. Nicki Cawood says

    September 19, 2012 at 4:38 pm

    I feel your pain, I really do.
    That said I can’t help but chuckle but that is your own fault for writing in such an entertaining fashion 🙂

    Reply
    • northernmum says

      September 25, 2012 at 8:30 pm

      One has to laugh or blundgeon oneself to death by recorder….

      Reply
  3. Jazzygal says

    September 19, 2012 at 4:40 pm

    Oh, I fecking hate whistles too. And recorders and tin whistles too! Thanks for making me laugh about it though!

    xx Jazzy

    Reply
    • northernmum says

      September 25, 2012 at 8:30 pm

      anytime!

      Reply
  4. Emma says

    September 19, 2012 at 7:11 pm

    You make me bloody laugh woman!

    Reply
    • northernmum says

      September 25, 2012 at 8:30 pm

      Good!

      Reply
  5. older mum in a muddle says

    September 19, 2012 at 8:05 pm

    That really made me laugh! Your poor boy, but oh, how you turned the situation around, loved how you described the drunk homeless guy …

    Reply
    • northernmum says

      September 25, 2012 at 8:29 pm

      I am a supermum!!!!!

      Reply
  6. Catherine Rodie Blagg says

    September 19, 2012 at 9:14 pm

    A wonderful read x

    Reply
    • northernmum says

      September 25, 2012 at 8:29 pm

      Thanks

      Reply
  7. Rachelradiostar says

    September 20, 2012 at 6:08 am

    This cute photo! She makes my heart melt! I giggled at the sand in your crevices! Also my stomach turned over when reading about you looking over the edge of the harbour wall. I think my fear of heights is getting a tad out of hand! Fab post 🙂

    Reply
    • northernmum says

      September 25, 2012 at 8:28 pm

      Thanks Rachel

      Reply
  8. Super Amazing Mum says

    September 20, 2012 at 8:46 pm

    recorder and violin are FAR FAR worse……SCREEEEECCCCHHHHHH

    Reply
    • northernmum says

      September 25, 2012 at 8:26 pm

      God – could you imagine them both together?

      Reply
  9. Kizzy says

    September 21, 2012 at 11:55 am

    Great post and I agree I hate whistles and recorders too!!

    Reply
    • northernmum says

      September 25, 2012 at 8:25 pm

      Should be banned, am thinking of starting a club…..

      Reply
  10. helloitsgemma says

    October 2, 2012 at 10:18 am

    Some small peeps acorns grows. How do you think James Galloway started? All children need whistles – eventually they will make beautiful music.

    Reply
    • northernmum says

      October 7, 2012 at 7:05 pm

      not in this house

      Reply

Trackbacks

  1. Whistle While You Work | Popspired says:
    October 4, 2012 at 7:05 am

    […] I. Fecking. Hate. Whistles…~ northernmum Share this:TwitterFacebookLike this:LikeOne blogger likes this. This entry was posted in Popspired Lit and tagged Candace, Coffee, coffeehouse, creative writing, humor, short story, Whistle, Whistling. Bookmark the permalink. […]

    Reply

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