Dropping the F-Bomb.
During the following exchange I will swap the F-bomb for the less offensive, Burt. So to be clear, when you see Burt, think f*ck.
I am wearing sandals (Birkenstock – naturally) and I am in the back room organising a glitter and glueing session with the kids. My wife is in the corner behind a heap of washing, doing the ironing. The washing heap looks like that mashed potato mountain Richard Dreyfuss made in Close Encounters. I walk over to see if my wife needs some help and she drops the hot iron on my foot.
“I’m sorry. It was an accident. Are you OK?”
“For Burt’s sake! What the Burt do you think you were doing? Burt!”
“Stop saying Burt in front of the kids.”
“Burt the kids. Just look at my Burting foot. It’s Burted.”
Mentioning one parent having an affair with another parent at the same school.
This was awkward. As you can appreciate, I think it’s appropriate to change the names of those involved. I shall refer to them as Mr and Miss X.
Me to my wife: “Did you hear about Mr X and Miss X? Apparently, they’ve been…”
One of my kids pokes a head out from behind the couch. “What about Mr X and Miss X. What have they been doing?”
“Nothing. There’s some pizza in the kitchen, do you want to go and get some?”
The kid scoots off. I find offering pizza to a kid is a great way of getting them out of the way when you want to talk privately about how other adults have got themselves into a pickle by acting like children.
“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” begs my wife.
“Mr X has been seeing Miss X behind his wife’s back. Apparently, they’ve been Burting each other since the Harvest festival.”