Posted by: Sam Olsen | November 11, 2011

The Chronicles of Larry 12: load of junk

So last week it was my birthday. Have I mentioned that before? And about how They sent me to school. So when other kids would have been opening presents and playing at home, I was learning Chinese and watching a fully grown man pretend to bake a tractor cake. What a good day.

They decided to make it up to me by taking me on a boat trip. I always like these, especially as every time we go on the water the conversation invariably turns to being lost at sea and Dad starts to look a bit nervous. I love that bit.

For once I’m looking forward to something. We get our trunks on, Mum packs the bag, Dad gets the chicken (does he eat anything else?) and, along with Grandpa and Grappy, we head off down to the boat. We arrive at the pier. “What-is-that?” I cry. “Oh look Lawrence, it’s our junk” replies Mum. Junk? You don’t say. It’s the nautical equivalent of our Great Wall car. Even I’m a bit nervous.

But nevermind.  At least I’ll have a load of friends to play with/maul. Except I don’t. Turns out they’re all ill except for one. And he’s so small he can’t even crawl. What a baby. What frustration.

We cast off – well, an old crone in a wicker hat does – and we head out to sea on what can only be described as a random assortment of timber, and with only one pal to share it with. What a great birthday treat.

I decide to make my feelings known to Dad by vomiting all over him: woops, my self control just expired. Man, you should have seen it. More carrots than a Bugs Bunny dream and a smell to die of. Laugh? I nearly choked. But then, that might be the carrots again.

Whilst Dad is cleaning his shirt belowdecks – he hasn’t brought a spare top: result – the rest of the guests are tucking into the beer. The waves crash around us; the boat creaks, the crone creeps, the sick reeks. Love it.

One of Mum’s workers has come along with some random broad (who is definitely not his girlfriend. Of course). Reg is nice. I decide to fall asleep on him. Does him a favour you see. His ‘friend’ sees the paternal instinct in him. He makes a good impression on his boss, Mum. And I don’t have to hang out with someone who smells like a mouldy vomitorium. It’s a win win win.

But then it’s lose lose lose. The beer has run out. All I can hear is talking, shuoting – about who’s to blame. Dad of course, I yell. But everyone knows that already. It’s black and white. “Throw him overboard!” shouts someone. But lucky for him, Mum reveals a secret stash. Apparently she didn’t trust Dad and his pals to not hoover it all up in the first hour. So no pirate-style walking the plank for Dad. More frustration for me.

After what seems like hours sailing around till everyone’s dizzy, except for a short spell next to a beach where the anchor was lose and we drifted quickly towards some rocks, which is always good fun –  it’s time to come in. Everyone’s had a good time by the looks of it. Grandpa and Grappy have been talking to the other oldies. Dad has been cleaning clothes. Mum has been holding court. Reg has been used as a bed. The skipper has avoided sinking. Just what my birthday party should be like.

I’m organising Dad’s birthday, I can tell you.

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