The Machinist and I love to have coffee together. The Three Young Adults love to have coffee with us, too. Even when they don't fancy a cup of coffee, they like to listen in on our conversations. They're nosey. There is constant competition between the Machinist and Number One Son (we call him this because when he was a baby, we bought him a bib which read: Number One Son. He's our third-born). As I was about to take a sip of coffee, Number One Son (NOS) walked into the school room (a room still called the "School Room", even though no school is held here), slightly crouched over to the left, and holding his left wrist with his right hand.
"Mam, have you got anything for burns?"
"What have you done?"
"I've burned myself with the welding rod..."
Then from the Machinist: "C'mon. C'mon, you're not soeking about a tiny burn. Are you?"
NOS had a cheeky smile on his face. "But it's SORE, Pappie"
"Huh, that time I burned the top of my leg, I didn't get one ounce of attention. From anybody. C'mon, get back to work and don't be such a baby!"
NOS ambles out of the schoolroom.
Then later, he returns with the first aid kit and an ice pack.
"Mam, do me a favour? Would you tie a bandage around the ice pack" he chuckles.
I'm not very good at fixing up sores and scrapes and burns and the result of this endeavour was a huge wadding of white, mummified wrapping around NOS's wrist, complete with an over-exaggerated bow. NOS disappears and returns within a few minutes.
"What did dad say?" I ask
"He's still moaning about the lack of attention he received when he burned himself and wants to know where I'm going now..."