There’s a man in the house

There’s a man in the house

My mini-men keep me in check, and they like to check up on me regularly.

Just recently, I put them in the bath and let them splash around while I resurrected the lounge room from Mutant Ninja Turtles playland.

I had my best trackies on, an old T-shirt and unkempt hair.  There was a knock on the door.

My upstairs neighbour was standing in the doorway.  We had exchanged pleasantries on his first day moving in as I dangerously wielded a new lamp stand up the stairwell.

Standing in front of me was a sight for daddy eyes … another adult. Whoo hoo!

Mr Neighbour presented a gift of wine and chocolates as a thank you for the Italian biscuits I left on his doorstep welcoming him (and the other person of unknown relationship status) into the neighbourhood on their first day.  Yes, it really is Melrose Place over here, sans waist-high jeans with belts and all the bipolar Kimberley-style residents had been kindly moved out before our arrival.

Mr Blue Eyes stood in my doorway for about twenty minutes, while I tried to ignore the fact that I was wearing such unattractive clothing -” oh my God, is that spaghetti sauce on my sleeve?

I could hear both the boys athletically completing laps in the bath ensuring the bathroom floor became a lovely reflective pool for me to mop up.

After closing the front door like Liesel after singing a few rounds with what’s-his-name from the German youth group in Sound of Music, I wandered into the bathroom where I was confronted by two midgets demanding to know who was at the door.  Gee, when did I start being questioned by two replicas of my mother in similar height and raised brows?

Funnily enough, at the next bath time, similar situation and yes, I’m in my daddy clothes (I should be ashamed of my selection of gay lounging around clothes) both boys soaking their fingers and toes into prunes in the bath, Mr Neighbour arrived at the door.

After swapping numbers (yep, I can pick up in trackies) I skipped into the tiled swamp previously known as a bathroom where I was again interrogated by two naked CSI agents frolicking around in the bath.  This time, my eldest mini-man said oh Daddy, I didn’t get to say goodbye to him, throwing his arms in the air with disgust at my poor social etiquette.

Maybe this time kiddo-¦

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