The day the hairy men came.

The door bell chimes. I peer out of the bedroom window.

Oh my god,” I say.

“What’s the matter?” asks my wife. “Is it your mother?”

It looks like a small angry man with a moustache.”

So, it is your mother.”

“Hang on,” I say. “Three more have appeared. And they all have moustaches.”

I like to keep in touch with scientific breakthroughs, but I can’t remember reading about a laboratory that has finally harnessed the power to clone my mother. Now there are four of them and they’re roaming around the village.

My wife peers out of the window.

I wonder what your four mothers want,” she says.

“It’s obvious,” I reply. “Revenge.”

I go down to investigate. My teenage son, Brodie, pokes his head out of his bedroom door.

What’s happening?” he asks.

There are cloned versions of my mother at the door.” I say. “I’m going to see what they want. Why don’t you come with me? Treat it like a day out.”

I’m being flippant but it’s been a while since our teenage son agreed to come with us on a family day out, and when he did, he just sulked, put his hood up and dragged his feet. It was like being stalked by a suicidal monk. 

My teenage son on a fun family day out at Legoland. Sorry, my mistake. This desolate landscape is obviously not Legoland. I think it’s Chessington World of Adventure.

I wander down alone and open the door…

The gang leader edges towards me. “Is Brodie in?” he asks. “We’re going to the park. Does he want to come?”

Hang on,” I say and rush up to my wife.

“What do they want?” she asks.

They want our first born child,” I say. 

My wife peers out of the window. “I think I recognise one from his old primary school.”

Which one?” I ask.

The one that’s vaping.”

This is what happens when your child reaches year 11, they’re exposed to ‘new experiences’. But don’t worry, it’s year 12 next. Just put your feet up and relax because that’s when the pregnancies start.

We can’t let him go,” says my wife. “They’ll peer pressure him into vaping.”

I tell our son the news. He speed dresses, bolts down the stairs and out of the door.

My wife and I peer out of the window and watch our baby boy disappear in a puff of smoke.

“What do we do now?” asks my wife.

“We’re in unknown parenting territory,” I say. “We need some advice. I think I’m going to ring up some of my mothers.”

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