18 months ago or so, at around the time that Reuben decided to stand up & face the world, I let out a wail of anguish at the presence of the Teletubbies in our home. Convinced, maybe, that they represented some superior stage of baby evolution – the pupal to his larval – he would watch them with total absorption as they cavorted around that rabbit-infested golf course that is their natural environment. And as if the scheduled television appearances of these foul hybrids wasn’t enough, he would demand constant screenings of the videos, which, in a moment of tragic weakness we bought in bulk at a carboot sale.
Now the worst-case scenario has come to pass: Rosie shares his devotion with equal passion. While he watches with the intense absorption of the junior anthropologist, she lies on her back in approved baby mode gurgling at every nuance of the unfolding narrative. Of course, we only have ourselves to blame. We brought this insidious narcotic into the house in the first place & we have simply stood (or sat) by while it has worked its dreadful magic. That witless banjo tune begins at 6.00 am sharp; the giggling of that wretched baby-in-the-sun rattles down the acoustic amplifier of the corridor to the bathroom; the sound of those scary aliens-on-helium voices mangling basic English is the aural backdrop to breakfast.
When eventually I have to enter the living room in which the morning ritual is being enacted, my blood pressure climbs & the red mist descends. What, I ask out loud, could induce a grown man or woman to climb inside those nylon & sponge suits & then, under direction from someone presumably not dressed as a sea anemone, proceed to behave like a complete horse’s arse? Either they are paid salaries in six figures & work under pledges of total anonymity or they are miserable, broken souls, their thespian ambitions dashed by drink, drugs or heartbreak, & are now reduced to this pitiful fate. If it’s the former then I have to assume that even their closest family have no idea what profession it is that purchases the Lear jet, the Hummer & the beachside mansion in the Seychelles.
“I work for the government. Enough said”, Dad murmurs with an enigmatic smile when little Jason or Jade asks. If it’s the latter – well, you’ve got to stump up some compassion from somewhere. But surely to God there are limits. Wasn’t begging in the streets ever considered as a decent alternative?
And tomorrow they’ll be back. Reuben will be reclining on his personal beanbag & Rosie will be upended like a turtle in the middle of the floor, both thinking that entertainment really doesn’t get much better than this. And I shall be hunched over breakfast in the kitchen entertaining increasingly diseased fantasies such as might cause the most ardent member of the National Rifle Association to forswear forever the use of arms…
10:41:20 PM 
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