Just Annoying! (11 page)

I shake my hand a few times and look around for my duck. It has landed in the middle of a large unsupported section of insulation batts. I'm tempted to leave it there. But that wouldn't be right. It's been with me all the way. I can't abandon it now.

I reach towards it but it's too far away. I'm going to have to crawl out there. I know you're not supposed to climb on the unsupported parts of the roof, but I think it will be okay. I'm not that heavy. And it's not as if I have any clothes on to weigh me down.

I climb carefully onto the batts and start moving slowly to the centre. One more metre and I'm there.

I pick up my duck and bring it up to my face. ‘Just you and me,' I say.

The duck creaks. That's weird. I didn't know rubber ducks could talk.

Uh-oh. The creaking is not coming from the duck. It's coming from underneath me. The ceiling is giving way.

I try to grab the roof beam but I can't reach it.

The ceiling caves in.

Next thing I know I'm lying, legs spread, in the middle of the dinner table—my fall broken by an insulation batt.

As the dust from the ceiling plaster settles, I see Mr and Mrs Bainbridge and Mum and Dad staring down at me.

Jen is standing next to Dad, her bath towel draped over her shoulder. Her back is turned towards me and she's so busy complaining to Dad that she doesn't seem to notice what has happened.

‘. . . I've asked him a million times but he just won't get out . . .' she's saying.

‘Oh, dear,' says Mum.

‘Oh, my,' says Mrs Bainbridge.

For once in his life Mr Bainbridge is speechless.

‘Oh, no,' says Dad, shaking his head at me. ‘No, no, no!'

‘Oh yes,' says Jen. ‘And I'll tell you what else . . .'

Dad nods in my direction.

Jen stops, turns around and stares.

I cover myself with the rubber duck, swing my legs over the edge of the table and stand up.

‘I beg your pardon,' I say. ‘I was looking for the kitchen.'

Nobody says anything. They are all just staring at me, their faces and clothes white from the plaster dust.

I head towards the door as fast as I can.

As I'm about to exit I turn towards Jen. She is still standing there, eyes wide.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?' I say. ‘Shower's free!'

f you had the choice, Dad,' I say, ‘would you rather be eaten by ants or lions?'
     It depends,' he says. He's holding the sauce bottle up to his eye and peering into the neck of it like it's a telescope.

‘Blast!' he says. ‘It's blocked again!'

‘Language!' says Mum.

‘“Blast” is not a swear word,' says Dad.

‘It's not a nice word,' says Mum.

‘Well?' I say. ‘Ants or lions?'

Dad puts the bottle down. He rubs his chin with his hand and frowns. ‘I can't say I'm too keen on being eaten by either,' he says. ‘Can I have an injection to put me to sleep beforehand?'

‘No. You have to be conscious.'

‘Hmmm. In that case, I'll take the lions. If I have to experience pain I'd rather it be short and sharp. Ants would take too long.'

‘What if the lions were really old, though,' I say. ‘And their teeth were all falling out and they just gummed you to death and it took ages and ages and ages?'

‘Do we have to talk about this while we're eating?' says Jen.

‘It's important,' I say. ‘You might be in the situation where you have to choose one day. You'll be a lot better off if you've already thought about it.'

‘Yeah, right,' says Jen, rolling her eyes.

Dad is holding the sauce bottle at a forty-five degree angle and poking into its neck with his knife.

‘You'll cut yourself if you're not careful,' says Mum.

‘I'll be careful,' says Dad.

‘Dad?' I say, trying to get him back on the topic. I wish Jen and Mum wouldn't interrupt. Dad gets distracted so easily.

‘Owww!' Dad slams the bottle down and drops the knife. He's shaking his left hand and grimacing.

‘What happened?' says Mum.

 

‘The knife slipped,' he says.

‘I told you to be careful. Use the barbecue sauce instead.'

‘I don't want barbecue sauce,' says Dad. ‘There's plenty of tomato sauce—I just can't get it out!'

‘Forget the sauce,' I say. ‘Ants or lions?'

‘I told you,' he says. ‘I'll take the lions but I want good ones. Really hungry, really mean and really quick. One swipe and lights out. No gumming!'

‘You can't make demands. You have to take what you get.'

‘Then I don't want to sign up.'

You're already signed up!' I say. ‘It's ants or lions. If you don't want lions then you must want ants.'

‘No,' says Dad. ‘Ants are out of the question.' He turns the sauce bottle upside down and stands it on his plate.

‘That will tip over,' says Mum.

‘I'm watching it,' says Dad.

‘That's what I'm worried about,' says Mum.

‘What's wrong with ants?' I say.

‘Too slow.'

‘What if your body was covered in honey to attract as many ants as possible?'

‘Well, honey would attract sugar ants and I wouldn't mind that so much,' says Dad. ‘They'd just eat the honey and leave me alone.'

‘They'd be all over you, though.'

‘But they'd be after the honey—not me.'

‘No honey then. You'll be covered in dog food instead,' I say.

‘Charming!' says Jen. ‘Could you pass the salt, Andy?'

‘Say please.'

‘Please.'

‘Pretty please.'

‘Pretty please,' she sighs.

Jen says it because she knows it's quicker to say it than to argue with me about saying it.

‘Pretty please with sugar on top,' I say.

‘Andy! Just pass the bloody salt!'

‘Jen!' says Mum. ‘Language!'

‘Well, he wouldn't pass the bloody salt.'

‘There's still no need to speak like that.'

Jen looks at me through slitted eyes.

I slide the salt grinder across the table.

‘There you are, Jen,' I say.

‘Thank you.'

‘Don't mention it. You're welcome. Any time. If there's anything else you require please don't hesitate to let me know.'

‘There is something else,' she says.

‘Anything,' I say.

‘Shut up.'

‘Jen!' says Mum.

Jen pokes her tongue out at me.

I ignore her and turn to Dad. ‘Well? How about it—would you consider the dog food?'

‘But I don't want to be covered in dog food!' says Dad. ‘If I have to die I at least want a little dignity.'

‘But I thought you wanted to die quickly,' I say.

‘I do. I'll stick with the lions.'

‘What if by covering yourself in dog food I could guarantee you that the ants would finish you off ten times quicker than even the most efficient lions?'

‘Now you're just being silly,' says Dad in a loud voice. He's getting heated up. ‘You're making promises that you can't keep. I've seen lions. I've seen their claws.'

He curls up the fingers on his right hand to demonstrate a lion's claw.

‘One swipe can break your neck.'

He swipes his arm across the table so that his ‘claw' goes within a centimetre of my nose.