When I say ‘you’re’ doing it wrong, I only mean me. You are not, because you’re not driving in the car with my kids. If you were, you’d be wrong, too. Because they have RULES. Scary, hard rules. When you go for your L plates you should have two small girls yelling at you to ‘STOP! WEE COMING!’ while you do the computer test, then a large dog farting Chum farts while you attempt to reverse park for your P- plate test.
According to small girl rules, I first make the mistake of paying far too much attention to the road. I forget I am a DJ and top chef with go-go Gadget hands, ready to retrieve dropped items from under my seat whilst simultaneously dishing out delectable snacks and Eclipse mints for dessert from the depths of my handbag. Operating a vehicle? Pah. I can do that with the eyes in the back of my head and my extra octopus arms.
There are complex and difficult games. ‘I spy with my little eye, something beginning with pink’. We also play the ‘magic word’ game, where they make deals based on my knowledge of the secret word. They’ll do as I ask, if I know the password. Too easy! Says I, cocky in the knowledge that yesterday’s was FoxBox. ‘Noooo Muuuuuuuum’. I lose. Today’s word is Stinkydingo. Of course. Outwitted by a 4-year old once again.
I do slightly better in my role as DJ. I’ve worked out some get-arounds for the more high-rotation dodgy lyrics we encounter, but some of the swearing still catches me off guard on the school run in the mornings. Today on the way back from the beach we wound all the windows up so nobody could hear us having a Gangnam Style dance party while we sang ‘Hey… Chips and gravy, op op op op, open Gangnam style!’ because that song is like, SO last year. The other day I had them convinced that Gwen Stefani was singing ‘Ooooooh, this my ship this my ship’, ‘The sheep is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S!’ before launching in to a lengthy explanation of what a Hollaback Girl might actually BE…. However. I still get caught out frequently, usually before my brain logs on at 10am, and I’m forced to start singing really loudly over the top of the radio with some ridiculous makeup words. Over the past week with laryngitis I’ve sounded a lot like a dying cockatoo, BUT, on the up-side I’ve preserved my kids’ aural virginity another day….
What I really need, I think, is some kind of scrambling device for the radio, like the police have. (Do they? Or did I just make this up? Whatever. Go with me, cos I said. Bossy. Shoosh.) So this scrambling device would recognise swearing or inappropriate lyrics in the music, and would scramble the word and substitute something else, like ‘plucking’. Basically, it would do all the thinking on my feet for me, while I’m busy being an Inspector Gadget octopus chef.
Speaking of police, I recently had a close encounter of the back pocket kind. I pulled up at the lights, and realised, distracted as I was with my mobile, that the intermittent woop noise was in fact a cop car alongside trying to gently gain my attention. Oh. He smiled at me, shook his head and waggled his finger. I chucked aside my phone like it was Psy’s underpants and made the most contrite face I could conjure (a cross between a strangled goat and a goldfish). I KNOW. Massive fail. I wasn’t texting or tweeting, and what I was doing on my phone is not important, since I shouldn’t have been holding it. BAD person. In the bin SLAM. I was just looking for the good songs to play. The sweary ones, since I was in the car, without the kids, and I wasn’t going to get into trouble for once.
[Photo credit: Alamy – www.Telegraph.co.uk]