Archived entries for Wrong Side of Bed

Morning has Broken (my delightful sleep)

“Wake up, Papa! It’s Time to go downstairs.”
“…grrrmphh…wha? What time…? It’s much too early…”
“It’s not too early.”
“Yes it is. What time is it?”
“It’s half past six.”
“You always say it’s half past six. What’s the real time?”
“Time! Time to go downstairs!”
“It’s five o’clock in the morning. I need some more sleep. Downstairs later.”
“Not downstairs later. Downstairs now!”
“In ten minutes…shhh! Listen! What’s that noise?”

This is followed by me being as quiet as possible in the hope that my daughter Seren (aged 2) will magically fall back into a deep sleep. She knows exactly what I’m trying to do. The next thing I notice is not the gentle sound of a sleeping youngster but instead two little hands trying to pull me out of my own bed.

“Er, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Seren’s bed.”
“No, Your bed is in your room. This is my bed and I’m staying i-”
“Light on!”
“No, light stays off. If you switch it on, Papa will go blind. Will you leave the light alone if I go downstairs and get you some milk?”
“Yep.” (She giggles. Those confident giggles you get when you know you’ve won.)

So the day begins.

Frites and Ferocity

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Maybe someone just got out of bed the wrong side that morning. On reflection, though, it was worth the verbal abuse for the unforgettable taste of those chips. I’d stood in the queue, in the freezing cold, for the best part of 25 minutes, this had to be something special. The woman being served in front of me was clearly at pains to stress the point that it was a paper cornet of chips she wanted, Monsieur, a cornet of chips, yes? Cor. Net. Of. Chips.
Well this was all too much for Monsieur Frites. He looked tired and emotional, in that I’ve-been-working-all-day-inside-this-tiny-Fritemobile way. He’d spent hours serving the hundreds of people out and about on this sunny weekend.

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Along comes this fussy customer with her demands, asking for a cornet as if it is she, not I, who knows more about chips. His pride was hurt. In short, he had every right to snap.”Yes, madam, I fully understood, the first time, that it was a cornet of chips you wanted! Alright?! Now who’s next? Who is next? Come on!” he yelled, sternly, from the Fritemobile.
It felt as if we were back in school uniforms and had just been caught by Monsieur (“Old Fritesy”) kicking a ball through his window. A silence fell upon the crowd. Everyone stared at the floor, terrified to move. Shoes were scuffed, appetites vanished. I was next in line. One word out of place and that bottle of mustard wouldn’t stay on the counter for much longer.
“I…just..if it’s no bother…a p-p-portion of chips, please, your Friteness. Nothing extra, honestly, that’s all, sir. Thanks.”
Damn, they were good chips. No, really, I’m not just saying that. If you’re in Brussels, go to Place Flagey and try them yourself. Just remember your manners.



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