Let’s all hunt the fucking unicorn!

Oh look, it’s my favourite time of day…no, not wine o’clock (this part of the day does go well with wine though!). No, it’s hunt the fucking unicorn time. 

You see my 4 year old has a favourite toy. Don’t get me wrong, she has around seventy billion soft toys. I know this because every single night of my life I have to look through the seventy billion soft toys to find the fucking unicorn. Now many soft toys barely move from week to week, but fucking unicorn is special. I suspect fucking unicorn is in some way affiliated with Harry Potter and the Hogwarts crew due to its apparent abilities in the skills of transfiguration, and the fact that it obviously owns a twatting invisibility cloak. 
Obviously, every night I forget the trauma of the previous night until I have the twins fast asleep, then put the four year old down. “Unicorn was definitely on my bed” she sobs at 6 million decibels as I frantically promise anything in the world if she will just shut up and not waken the twins. Cue the great creep in the dark through rooms using only the light of my phone.

Crunching my painful way over Lego bricks and mega blocks in the near dark, I come across the usual suspects. Eyeore, fuzzy cat and scary bear are never missing. Blue nose usually turns up next closely followed by the Macca Pacca with no off switch (“Macca Pacca Moo” or some similar shite it giggles as I accidentally kick it across a room). Saggy bits, Foxy Loxy, baby fox, raggy tag and stinky rabbit are always easy to find, but none of them will do. It has to be the shape shifting master of disguise, fucking unicorn. Tonight’s little jaunt was a mere 30 minutes (followed obviously by a further 30 minutes re-settling the twins). Tonight’s hiding place was in her brothers bedroom hidden under his school clothes amidst the mass of Lego, of which I suspect I have stepped on every block in my bare feet. 

Ah well, undoubtedly after a glass of Chardonnay or two, I will get to re-live the whole experience with a new search for fucking unicorn, the magical mysterious morphing toy.


When lying lands you in the shit!

Last night we had some friends round for a party. As the wine flowed, the tales got funnier. Someone told a particular tale, which is probably some sort of urban myth, but it made everyone laugh including the kids. Afterwards, it struck me that it really was a bloody fine example of the virtues of telling the truth first time round. The story went a bit like this (all names made up by me which is why they are a bit crappy!).
Peter and Jane had a dog. Let’s call it Rover. One evening, Rover came home bearing a gift in the form of the next door neighbours beloved rabbit. The rabbit, let’s call it Bunnykins, had previously been white and fluffy and full of life. Bunnykins was now extremely muddy, slightly bloody, and most definitely dead.

Peter and Jane uttered a fair few swear words, and drank some wine to calm their nerves while they tried to work out what the fuck to do. They both agreed that they couldn’t tell their neighbours that Rover had killed little Bunnykins. There’s no way they could continue living next to each other after that. Now, it may have been something to do with the amount of wine they had drunk on account of their nerves, but rather than chucking dead little Bunnykins in the bin and pretending to know nothing, they got out the L’oreal elvive, and before you know it, Bunnykins was once again white and fluffy, if a little salon fragrant. Little Bunnykins was then blow dried. In the dead of night, Peter snuck next door, and placed little Bunnykins back in his hutch.

The next day, after work, the neighbours called at Peter and Jane’s door. Now, Peter and Jane had expected them to be upset, but not quite on this scale. I mean, here they were, two fully grown adults, breaking their heart over something which Gordon Ramsey wouldn’t hesitate to serve up for lunch with a side of braised red cabbage.

Wine poured, and tissues distributed, their neighbours explained the reason for their distress. It seemed that little Bunnykins had died around 5 days earlier. Bunnykins had been buried with due ceremony by the cabbage patch in the garden.  A plaque had been erected, and tears had been shed.

Today, when they had returned from work, they had found little Bunnykins freshly coiffured and lying stone dead in his hutch.

The moral of the story? If you don’t tell the truth first time round, you had better be bloody good at keeping a straight face when it all unravels!