Monthly Archives: March 2016

Good v Evil: last one out switch off the lights

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Following on from the hero-Dad-post, I took Jonah to see another hero today, at least he always was one of mine. Superman is in Singapore, appearing several times a day in various locations. I had two boys with me for a school holiday viewing, and enjoyed that frissance of fun that I still get when I watch anything during daylight hours*. We had a lot of popcorn, which – as usual – kept appearing long after I got home (down my bra, stuck to my skirt), and a big drink each, and we were all set for some tights-over-pants action.

There was a lot of talking. Some of it made sense but I couldn’t follow all of it – at least not while fishing stray popcorn kernels out from under my thigh. The man in front of me had a very smelly head, and left early. Jonah always asks a lot of questions, but today’s rate increased to levels that even his friend found tiresome: ‘JONAH, SHUT UP!’ For a while they both sucked bubbles loudly through straws. Sandals were kicked off and toes tickled the heads of the people in front – no one noticed so I didn’t mention it. While noses were picked, I found another kernel stuck to my left elbow.

About two hours into the film, Jonah needed a wee and disappeared off to the toilet, just as Superman’s head was clonged against a steel pylon for the 11th time. I squinted closely at the big screen to see if any bruises were starting to come up, because surely that was going to sting, but he just mumbled a bit. Once Jonah came back his friend needed to go, so off they went together – just as Superman told Lois he loved her. When the boys came back I updated them and I’m amazed that no one told us to shut up but frankly I think the whole audience appreciated the distraction.

When anyone mentions that cliched term ‘multitask’, it always makes me think of superheroes, and not the ones in kitchen aprons with office pencils behind their ears and nappies sticking out of their back pockets (although they deserve a round of applause too, especially as that’s Me, that is), but the ones in tights, holding up busloads of screaming citizens while KAPOWING a baddy in the goolies at the same time. Call me old-fashioned, but the superheroes of yesterday were just so much stronger, braver, and tidy as well, really thoughtful. No one brought down an entire Parliament including truckloads of innocent bystanders, because that’s too close to real life, and who wants to watch that? In the olden days they saved everyone and got out the dustpan and brush afterwards. Today’s film brought out my latent OCD (which, sadly, never surfaces in real life) – just who is going to clear up that little lot, I thought, as Jonah stepped on my toes while fumbling for his seat yet again.

As for Wonderwoman: great plunge top. I looked hard for signs of see-through shoulder straps or Sellotape sticking out under the armpits, but can only conclude that she got one of those clever low-back scaffolds or perhaps had a bespoke one made at Rigby & Peller, because she did all sorts of things with her arms (waving, thrusting, crossing one in front of the other) and nothing fell out sideways, not even once. You’d never find any popcorn down there, that’s for sure. She was a bit late, I have to say, but when you’ve got a big magic hubcap to lug around I guess you’re going to be hard-pushed to follow a schedule.

That’s the thing though – in the old days, Wonderwoman wasn’t late, and had much bigger hair. I like my superheroes to be good role models, strong and brave but neat and efficient too, because the magic superbras won’t put themselves away in the undies drawer. I’m being political here, obviously. I’ll get my coat of many colours.

*Daylight viewing was banned in our house. This is because Mum was brought up in a beach house on the north Cornish coast with a garden full of sand, and thought her own kids should be out GettingFreshAir just as she was. Frankly, I think her sort of beachcombing sounded scary – she was found ‘playing’ in the waves no less than three times, scaled high cliffs without her parents knowing, and spent happy hours tripping tourists with man-traps made out of dune grass. Conversely, I was brought up in urban Kentish Town, six flights up in the air, with dog poo pavements and, yes, the Heath to roam over, but, well, it’s not the same. While everyone else was watching Saturday morning telly we were sent out to get some of that FreshAir. So I always feel naughty if I watch things in the day, which is probably why I do it more the older I become.

Hero workshop

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Those of us who have a good relationship with our parents can remember the time when we realised our dads were not, after all, heroes. I was around 10 years old. It was night time and we were coming back from an evening out, all four of us. It wasn’t such a huge incident compared with those who’ve been less fortunate: we’d parked and were walking to our apartment block when we saw someone being beaten up. We took him upstairs to our flat and my folks bathed his wounds and called the police. The guy couldn’t stop crying (stark memory of this grown-up young man sobbing) and nothing my parents said could calm him. I remember Dad looking so worried and I suddenly had the realisation that nothing had been able to stop the attack, and nothing would stop another one. The flat didn’t feel safe, and Dad was no longer wearing his pants over his trousers. (Actually, the same event taught me about the kindness of strangers, and another thing too – that if someone is too scared to thank you, it doesn’t mean they’re not grateful.)

Well, there goes my hero just now, packed into a cab after three weeks of top-quality Dad/Daughter time. He’s mid-70s, I’m mid-40s, and we’re neither of us too old to get a bit wet around the eyes on departure. SmallMonkey (reverting to diminutive name forms for sentimental moments) is sobbing in the shower as I write – proper small-boy sobbing – and I’ve had to sit down in a quiet room alone and take a minute or two.

I’ve talked about this business of minding the gap before, each time Dad goes – about how empty things are without him, how I miss his way with nature, his passion for education, the energy and enthusiasm that comes with him into our home and is unpacked all over the spare room, seeping into everything we do with a happy stain, and I realise I might be painting him out to be some kind of idolised Dr Doolittle, but I know he isn’t. He’s a good friend, though, increasingly so.

This parent-child friendship – those of us lucky enough to have it – comes later, doesn’t it, after the anti-hero teen angst has passed (if all is going to plan). By the time I was at college, and people were telling stories about their bonkers parents with cool habits and funny ways, starting sentences with: ‘Oh my folks are just SO HILARIOUS’, or, ‘Oh you know what parents are like!’ – I already had the strong conviction that no-one else’s parents would ever be quite like mine.

He’s not perfect, though, he has faults like everyone (the outdoor table still has a scorch mark from one of his experiments, and I’m happy to see the back of the bathroom bunting of pants, hankies and flannels), but the amazingness doesn’t seem to be fading with age, it just gets stronger. And delightfully, it all gets passed down – most noticeable this trip was the growing friendship between Dad and Grandson: proper chats, proper holiday room sharing, lots of shared schoolwork and the sort of general mellow hanging-out vibe that you see in feelgood films. Nice work, family.

You can’t really ask for more than a Grandpa who borrows your waterpistol to chase away oriole pests threatening the bulbul nest that’s just under your balcony, can you? Who else even notices there’s a bulbul nest under the balcony? We thought it was all just tropical squawking until Grandpa revealed there was a whole bird battle going on in the condo clearing, right under our noses, with bulbuls, starlings, mynahs and orioles battling it out for leadership. Who else has a Grandpa standing by to take a water pop right over the downstairs four-piece table set? I don’t think Jonah’s condo friend, popping round to play last Sunday, is ever going to forget the sight of one pump action Nerf and two smaller waterpistols all set up to go, aimed between the wooden railings at the big palm as the orioles hovered in wait. Yep, he’ll be back again, soon as his mum lets him.

Since we moved here in June, I’ve had no idea that the mad after-dark frog noise outside is a nightjar, and that there’s a dollar bird in the tree at the end of the road. The huge black bird dragging something stringy in its claws hadn’t caught something, it was just a racket-tailed drongo and that’s how they look. Nettles are like tiny glass needles, did you know that? Over at Haw Par Villa, those funny old tortoises in the pond are eating all the fish, so don’t feel sorry for them. And the carp at our own condo, meanwhile, are not sweetly coming up for feeding time, they’re gasping for oxygen, so I’ll need to get onto that.

I’ve talked in other posts – here, here and here – about how time with Dad helps me see things in a different way; how I spend the entire time quietly taking notes. You’re never too old to learn. And you’re never too old to crumple into a heap when your hero has to get in a cab to Changi. Better pull myself together, there’s a nest to look after.

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