It was the first time in a while that we had all sat down together for a meal, and things were not good. The Weasel, now recovered from her weekend exploits, was exploring her humorous side and cracking jokes, usually at other people’s expense. Mrs BW was being stoical and trying not to mention the weekend to the Weasel. Though this kept the fragile peace it did nothing to improve her humour. The Munch had slouched in his seat, elbows hovering annoying close, but not on the table, for most of the meal. Grunting occasionally about the “inernet” and scowling at the Weasels wise cracks, he added little to the fleeting snatches of conversation and with a final slurp, he stood up and made a move to leave the table.
“What do you think you are doing?” I said.
“What does it look like?” This last bit with added emphasis. “I’m leaving the table!”
“Well we have not finished yet, so will you please sit down and wait.” He crashed his plate back on the table. “Boring. Very boring” he said and began fiddling with his cutlery.
“Leave the cutlery alone” I snapped. “Tell us what you did at school?” Okay I admit, not particularly inspiring or original but it was a start I felt.
“CBA Dad. CBA!”
“And CBA means what exactly?” as if I didn’t know.
“Can’t be arsed” he grunted.
“Do you mind not using that sort of language at the table please” I could feel myself getting pompous.
“What’s wrong with arse” the Munch was getting indignant now. “It’s only a bloody donkey for god’s sake.
Mrs BW and the Weasel sniggered.
“No” I said calmly. I was going to enjoy this. “It’s not. You’re thinking of ass. I would dearly like to see you trying to go for a ride on an arse, and I don’t think you’ll find that the King of the Jews entered Jerusalem on an arse.”
The Munch shrugged. “Well I still can’t be assed anyway.” With that he got up and gathered the plates up. At least he was going to do the washing up.