Mum's not here, what shall we do?

Now, as the main cook in the house, and bottle-washer too, I take a certain pride in making sure Ottawacker Jr has good food, usually freshly made (unless it is left overs) (which, in honesty, it often sometimes is), but there are times when I just can't be arsed. Like, cannot be bothered.

At times like this, it is appropriate to have recourse to Ottawa's finer takeaway places. Or, at least, local ones.

And so, while Pierre frou-froued Mrs Ottawacker's locks, hiding any trace of grey with a dexterous flourish, Ottawacker Jr and I dined on scallops and broccoli, BBQ pork, chicken balls and fried rice. Then I read a chapter of The Hobbit (is that OK for a 7-year-old boy - I got to the part with the trolls and thought twice... then I turned the reading into a camp piss-take and it seemed to work well "Oooooooooh Bill, is that a dwarf in your bag or are you just pleeeeeeeeased to see me?"  and the fear went.

It's all in the background music, isn't it? There is no fear unless fear is felt. And human-eating trolls can be made "safe" with a silly voice and an emu tickle at the appropriate time...

I wish someone had told me that as I was crossing Wimbledon Common after watching The Entity in 1982. It would have saved several items of clothing.