In the Clouseau v Cato vein

A little diversion for the weekend.

Mrs W was out. While the cat’s away…

It had been ages since my son and I had wrestled. I waited until I could hear him opening the front door. Surprise was on my side and I lunged with a sliding tackle but he used a stiff-arm fend to push me back. And I was taken aback. What godforsaken sport has he been watching in his spare time?

“Too slow, Shirley Crabtree.”

I hate it when he calls me that so I ad hominemed him back.

“Shut it, Shirley Crabtree, junior.” Oscar Wilde or wit?

Weapons were allowed in our game of groans so I picked up a lamp and lamped him one. He staggered back holding the beump on his head before quickly recovering and catching me in a half-Nelson. This trap is old hat and instead of shouting Ole! I shouted Horatio! with heavy emphasis on the “aish”. I spun round and had my son in a full-Nelson replete with David Shepherd leg raise.

“You’re as predictable as a pre-determined pre-theatre meal.” he said long-windidly though he didn’t sound winded. “I’ve got a new move to show you. The three quarters Nelson”.

Whoo, watch out for the chandeliers. Next second I was upside down on his shoulders with my feet almost touching the ceiling. Alas, I fear he was a fraction out; possibly this was a five eighths Nelson. By putting all my weight to the one side I managed to break free and land on my head taking him down with me. Like Johnny Cougars we both sprung back to our feet. He threw a horizontal karate chop at me. I ducked and he hit the mirror on the wall.

The rectangular mirror, held on the wall by a nail and a piece of string, went round and round mesmerising us. The roundest fun fare of them all. The hypnotic looking glass eventually came to rest, rectangularly on the wall but I knew something was wrong. It didn’t look right.

“The mirror is the wrong way round.”

“You mean upside down”

“whatever.”

My son made another attack but was fouled as he trod on a ball in the hall. This ball was used by us in a keepie-uppie contest earlier. He was balancing on top of the ball as if it were a unicycle going backwards and forwards. I wanted a piece of the action, I don’t want left out. As the school champion at skipping ropes, better even than Agnes McGlinchy, I judged when to jump on the ball beside him. Brazuca! Our four feet were dancing, dancing on top, top of the world, rolling along. Rolling along!

We got up a head of steam and rolled along the astroturf. The rolling ball was on a collision course with the bathroom door. We could not change direction as atop the ball our feet had limited room to move. Our Titanic moment loomed as the toilet terminal neared.

We smashed through the door and landed slap bang on the floor. We looked up and there sitting on the throne was my mother-in-law. We stared into the belly of the beast. She was going through the motions and sounded as if she was having a harder time of it than us. She strained with bulging sinews on her neck.

“NNNNNNNNNNNHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”