Dad worked like a Trojan. I mean, truly grafted – day in, day out, the weight of the world seemingly balanced on his broad shoulders. That hard toil earned him the small comfort of his evening meal in his armchair, tray on his knee, a man at peace with his own domain. He chewed methodically, like a cow working over its cud, eyes fixed on the telly, only glancing down every now and then to spear another forkful of sustenance. It was his well-earned rite, and woe betide anyone who disturbed it.
But rest was fleeting. The night shift loomed, waiting to claim him again. He hadn’t long since risen from his bed, freshly shaved, vest-clad, and now partaking in a light supper, still in his throne of comfort. He chewed and swallowed, chuckled at the television on occasion, radiating a quiet contentment. That is, until my brother and I – a pair of mischief-makers fit for a Dickensian tale – broke the peace. We were locked in the throes of an elastic band war, launching tiny missiles with all the strategic precision of Napoleonic generals.
Now, any seasoned combatant knows that pain is best inflicted through innovation. We had discovered the cruel genius of folding small bits of paper or card, loading them into our rubber-band slingshots, and unleashing them on any exposed flesh. Our pièce de résistance? A daring assault on our sister, who, in the most unfortunate of circumstances, happened to be in the bath at the time. The bathroom door, lacking a lock, was no fortress. With a battle cry, we burst in, peppering her with a hail of paper bullets. The poor girl shrieked like a banshee, hands flailing in indecision – does one preserve dignity or protect oneself from a stinging onslaught? Ah, those halcyon days of youthful anarchy!
But back to Dad, who chewed on, oblivious to our latest war crimes. Above us, circling the light shade, were those insufferable little flies – the kind that meander about as if contemplating the meaning of existence. It seemed only logical to expand our campaign and take aim at them. Elastic bands were primed, projectiles readied. A noble endeavour, we thought. That is, until inspiration – or sheer folly – gripped me, and I loaded a penny into my makeshift sling.
One fateful shot. A fluke of physics. The penny soared, struck the lightbulb dead centre, and shattered it into a hundred burning-hot shards. A miniature apocalypse rained down upon Dad, his plate now garnished with splinters of glass – not quite the culinary flourish he’d expected.
The silence was deafening. Then, eruption. Dad shot from his chair, slamming his tray onto the coffee table with the force of divine wrath. His hands seized my shoulders, and he delivered a thunderous rebuke worthy of Old Testament proportions. I wept, but not from remorse or even fear – it was the unholy sting in my eye. Mid-rant, he had inadvertently spat some half-masticated morsel directly into it. Whatever he had been eating, it burned like the very fires of Hades.
Henceforth, elastic bands were decreed forbidden, outlawed contraband. But, as all good outlaws know, the law is only as strong as its enforcer – and Dad couldn’t be everywhere at once. Sisters, after all, still made excellent target practice.
Wording 