On finding one's offspring developing the characteristics of the typical car driver . . .
AS YOU may recall, a year ago I was blessed with a son. You may also recollect that I named him Turbo because he came out like a shot.
Well, Turbo is living up to his name. In fact, I do believe I've spawned a monster.
His favourite toy is a push-along car. We bought it in the vain hope he might use it to learn to walk. He has other ideas.
The first time he saw it, his eyes lit up bright as a rally car's headlights. Foolishly, I plonked him on to the seat.
As I pushed him across the livingroom, he jigged and yapped like a happy gibbon, his eyes madder than an amphetamine-addled stunt motorcyclist's. Whenever I stopped, he made with the waterworks, wailing as if I'd dipped him in a vat of acid. He was hooked.
For what felt like hours, I shunted him around the house on the car, its speed and closeness to disaster correlating exactly with the level of his cackling. Eventually, I collapsed in a heap. Turbo was irate.
"Why don't you get off and push it yourself?" I beseeched him.
"Push it?" he said. "Why should I when all I have to do is burst into tears and you - gullible, malleable fool that you are - will put me back on and steer me around for as long as I stay quiet or your back holds out? You think I haven't worked that out? You are evidently stupider than I thought."
Obviously, being 13 months old, he didn't say that. But he was definitely thinking it.
Since then, I've caught him innumerable times climbing aboard, rocking back and forth maniacally and making odd revving noises through what I hope was his nose.
My heart, harder than diamonds at the best of times, melts into goo when I see him grinning cherubically at me from behind the wheel. And, whether my spine be creaking like an oak in a hurricane or not, we're off again.
By the way, the car has a mobile phone. What message does that send out? I must write a firm letter to the manufacturer. I've considered installing a hands-free kit, but what's the point?
As far as he's concerned, everything to do with the car is hands-free. I push, he sits, the steering looks after itself.
Turbo is also obsessed with a little trolley that his older sister drags him around in as he sits beaming magnanimously at his peasant parents like the Queen of Sheba (Not having ever seen a photo of said regent, I am presuming for the sake of this analogy that she was the living spit of a two-foot long, bald and almost-toothless Irish manchild).
His sister is very careful. She only crashes him into things when she thinks we're not watching. I can only assume it's so as not to upset us. How considerate of her.
Finally, one of the few perks of my job is that I occasionally get to drive other people's fancy cars. I once took one home and decided, for the laugh, to pop Turbo in the driver's seat as it sat parked outside.
Bad move. He refused to get out. He threatened to scream until he puked whenever I tried to prise him from the steering wheel.
I was in a quandary. How would I explain to the car's owners why the dashboard was covered in babysick? I would've had to pretend it was mine. I couldn't face living with that shame? I've a reputation to protect, don't you know.
So I called the fire brigade and bribed them to slice the roof off and haul my kicking and screaming son out with grappling hooks.
Cost me the guts of €30,000 to fix the car, but I don't mind. I'll just deduct it from his inheritance.
