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Fun with Statistics: see if you can spot the line in this that goes all the way back to the original planning session...
***
Another winter, another cold-and-flu season. I want Benedict Cumberbatch to come over and read me the phone book, Button-Down's duvet mumbles.
"'You're not dying, you just can't think of anything good to do'," Jason quotes, and pokes the duvet. "C'mon, we brought food and beer." A corner of the duvet folds back. Jason hands in one of the bags; "And a little something to cheer you up."
With a wary eye on his brother Button-Down reaches into the bag and comes out with a squeaky rubber hedgehog. "Fuck you, man," he says, tossing it at Jason. (But he's come the rest of the way out from under the duvet.)
"What am I gonna do, bring you grapes? -- What the hell is that about, anyway?" Jason demands with a look over his shoulder to me. "How would grapes make someone feel better after, like, a massive head injury or something?"
He's been at me about that since I explained about Colin Creevey.
Button-Down shifts to make room for us and turns the telly to the rugby. (A few precious hours ahead of proper announcers' accents, stands filled with daffodils and dragons rather than vikings and cheese.) "You look weird without hair," he says. "Is my head that lumpy?"
"Your head is square, dude."
"It is not."
"Yuh-huh. Your head is as square as you are."
"Fuck you."
As the usual shoving-match starts it's a challenge just to stay on the settee with them. Both the cats spill onto the floor. "Your head is as square as Dad," Jason comes up with triumphantly.
Button-Down raises a finger as if calling out a point of order in a formal debate. "It's not physically possible for anything to be as square as Dad."
A pause as Jason considers this. "...Yeah," they agree in chortling unison.
There's a moment of comparative quiet. Iggy is sniffing the fallen hedgehog. The once-scrawny kitten has filled out into a sleek tiger, just this side of overfed in fact. His namesake should do so well as to be dragged home and fed up by a mark like Jason's indulgent brother. "I thought your usual thing was cougars," Button-Down says with a quirked eyebrow.
"Thirty-two is not a cougar," Jason insists, if a bit limply.
"You could at least have gotten it even. You want some shaving tips?"
"I'm not gonna keep it like this, I just... kind of freaked out for a minute."
"Guess it beats coming home in a Cone of Shame. What did you tell Mom and Dad?"
Jason scratches his stubbly scalp. I'd overheard part of a telephone conversation that had sounded very much like he was dancing round the issue of when he was coming round to see Michael. "Haven't seen them yet. I was thinking Vin Diesel look-alike contest?"
Button-Down's look is priceless. "You fucking wish you looked as good as Vin Diesel."
The wrestling is about to break out again. "You could tell them the truth," I suggest to forestall them.
They both look at me as if this idea is so passe as to be laughable. "That has got to be like living with Jiminy Cricket," Button-Down remarks. Tell me about it, Jason's expression says.
***
Another winter, another cold-and-flu season. I want Benedict Cumberbatch to come over and read me the phone book, Button-Down's duvet mumbles.
"'You're not dying, you just can't think of anything good to do'," Jason quotes, and pokes the duvet. "C'mon, we brought food and beer." A corner of the duvet folds back. Jason hands in one of the bags; "And a little something to cheer you up."
With a wary eye on his brother Button-Down reaches into the bag and comes out with a squeaky rubber hedgehog. "Fuck you, man," he says, tossing it at Jason. (But he's come the rest of the way out from under the duvet.)
"What am I gonna do, bring you grapes? -- What the hell is that about, anyway?" Jason demands with a look over his shoulder to me. "How would grapes make someone feel better after, like, a massive head injury or something?"
He's been at me about that since I explained about Colin Creevey.
Button-Down shifts to make room for us and turns the telly to the rugby. (A few precious hours ahead of proper announcers' accents, stands filled with daffodils and dragons rather than vikings and cheese.) "You look weird without hair," he says. "Is my head that lumpy?"
"Your head is square, dude."
"It is not."
"Yuh-huh. Your head is as square as you are."
"Fuck you."
As the usual shoving-match starts it's a challenge just to stay on the settee with them. Both the cats spill onto the floor. "Your head is as square as Dad," Jason comes up with triumphantly.
Button-Down raises a finger as if calling out a point of order in a formal debate. "It's not physically possible for anything to be as square as Dad."
A pause as Jason considers this. "...Yeah," they agree in chortling unison.
There's a moment of comparative quiet. Iggy is sniffing the fallen hedgehog. The once-scrawny kitten has filled out into a sleek tiger, just this side of overfed in fact. His namesake should do so well as to be dragged home and fed up by a mark like Jason's indulgent brother. "I thought your usual thing was cougars," Button-Down says with a quirked eyebrow.
"Thirty-two is not a cougar," Jason insists, if a bit limply.
"You could at least have gotten it even. You want some shaving tips?"
"I'm not gonna keep it like this, I just... kind of freaked out for a minute."
"Guess it beats coming home in a Cone of Shame. What did you tell Mom and Dad?"
Jason scratches his stubbly scalp. I'd overheard part of a telephone conversation that had sounded very much like he was dancing round the issue of when he was coming round to see Michael. "Haven't seen them yet. I was thinking Vin Diesel look-alike contest?"
Button-Down's look is priceless. "You fucking wish you looked as good as Vin Diesel."
The wrestling is about to break out again. "You could tell them the truth," I suggest to forestall them.
They both look at me as if this idea is so passe as to be laughable. "That has got to be like living with Jiminy Cricket," Button-Down remarks. Tell me about it, Jason's expression says.
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