Middens and Windmills

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“What in the bloody, blue blazes happened in here?”

Andy was still wiping too much of the thick muck from his face to dare opening his eyes, but he recognised his mother’s voice. A small part of him was suddenly seven again, explaining how the six foot long tropical fish tank in the living room had been broken.

His mental narrative, in desperation to displace his attention from the sticky situation he was in now, ran through those events again in his head. The awestruck pride he’d had in himself for catching that Yorker with a square bat on a sultry summer’s day and sending it sailing for six.

But it had sailed through an open window on an almost flat trajectory and massacred three guppies and a half dozen neon tetras. An inordinately small number of fish for such an ostentatiously large and overpriced tank.

“Andrew!” His mother’s tone was currently in outraged mode. That had been an almost constant when in Andy’s presence all his life. Although if one of her coven of friends was present, then it would often switch between that and sneering gossip, or worse inordinate pride in the pedestrian accomplishments of Andrew’s elder brother.

“I had a little accident mother,” Andrew said, with the resigned tones of someone who knew cleaning up the mess he was covered in was likely to be the least of his problems right now. But since he was already covered in it, nothing would make it worse. His tone became slightly terse, even if his words remained as reasonable as hell, “As you can see, it’s a bit of a state in here. It has only just happened and I’ve not had a chance to even properly contemplate how much work will go into setting things straight again. Was there something that you wanted?”

Andrew’s mother stood there, almost agape at how her weak and wayward son had addressed her. Then she drew herself up with an almost regal bearing, and glared at him.

“That is no way to talk to your mother. And this is certainly no environment for a baby!”

Sigh

“Amelia is fine. In fact, one could say that this wouldn’t have happened if she wasn’t healthy as a horse. Although, perhaps if she was a horse, it wouldn’t have been quite such a… messy situation. Given the consistency of horse apples.”

He threw the caked baby wipe into the bin, which had remarkably escaped unsplattered. “Now, why don’t you go sit down in the kitchen? I’ll clean myself up and bring Amelia in to you. I’ll make you some tea and you can watch her while I clean the room.”

Andrew’s mother wouldn’t be… well, Andrew’s mother, if the huff she sub-vocalized had been quiet, but she did walk off in the direction of the kitchen.

As he reached for another baby wipe to remove some more of the mess from his face, Andrew realised he should perhaps turn off the fan.

The fan which Amelia’s errant kick during changing had been struck with a very full nappy.