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Monday, June 04, 2007

Not autism just complex advanced laundry skills

When I was a youthful person, several life times ago, one of my hobbies was sub-aqua diving. Dive suits are made of neophrene. After every dive it is necessary to rinse off your suit with fresh water to ensure that this expensive piece of equipment does not rot prematurely. Ideally it should be left to dry under natural conditions. [translation = say no to tumble driers] If you care for your suit it will give you years of trouble free wear.

Like many of the younger generation, my spoiled children enjoy the pampering of a lightweight wetsuit. [translation = no goosebumps for my little wimps] It is a well documented fact, that they only people who have swimming pools are movie stars, millionaires and show offs. [translation = and a few Californians, although these categories are not mutually exclusive] Around here, we lucky people enjoy a swimming pool in our very own garden and it is kept warm by solar panels on the roof of the house.

As soon as the pool water reaches 96 degrees, junior deems the temperature acceptable, dons his wet suit and gingerly makes progress. [translation = there’s the ‘wetness’ campaign too.] Each year, the wetness campaign becomes shorter. As the days pass and the water becomes warmer still, we find that junior delights in wetness at a sloshing 99 degrees. [translation = but still in his wetsuit] My little chap is his own personal mobile sauna. [translation = and a very speedy one at that]

Following a nasty bout of stomach flu, we have returned to our normal routine. Children splash, scream a lot, and frequently give the appearance of drowning. [translation = senior prefers to hover just below the surface, immobile for long periods of time] Thus, when the squalker erupts from the pool making rooster noises, I am immediately aware that something is up. The something that is up, is unknown, because the ‘up’ is so distressing, that words have abandoned him. Instead, he rain dances at high speed and tippy toes on the hardcore. After a couple of athletic jumping jacks, he kicks starts his body into remedial action and spins off in the direction of the toilet.

I supervise the swimmers deep in thought. Why does he look like a cartoon so much of the time? 85% of his time is spent at high speed. [translation = fast forward] He runs where most people would walk or saunter. It’s not just the tippy toes that seem cartoonish. What is it? The fact that his arms are straight, rigid against his body? That may be part of it. I run the video of the runner through my mind's eye. Of course! It’s because usually when you run, you lean forward, sort of in to the wind, whereas he is vertical, suspended by an invisible, taught string running through his torso, so that his legs seem disengaged from the rest of him. [translation = "Irish Dancing"] I am just patting myself of the back for unraveling this conundrum, when the rooster crows reach level 10 volume with accompanying bangs and crashes. Oh no! He’s in his wetsuit! The one with the zip up the back. I dash into the loo. Too late. He lies on the floor, curled like a shrimp having convulsions.

He takes a considerable amount of time to cleanse his personage to his requirements. [translation = not just clean, but sanitized to hospital standards] Remarkably he is in fairly good spirits following this trauma and anxious to return to the pool. [translation = stomach flu free and returned to normal functioning] We both glance at the contaminated wetsuit. “Sorry dear, that’s not going to be so easy to clean.”
“Oh no! What am I be going to be doing now?” he sighs.
“It’s a bit of a stumper!”
“Good golly! This has gotta be the end of life as we know it on this planet!” [translation = gotta love the appropriate scripting]
“Maybe you could wear a swimming costume instead?” [translation = trunks?]
“No, no, no. I am not a fish.”
“No net, no net, no net.” I think. I think about boy’s swimming costumes, those loose garments that permit unfettered movement when swimming. I look at the three new virgin pairs of swimming trunks that he refuses to wear even though I have washed them many times in order to soften them. I grab a pair of scissors, vandalize the garment and remove the netting.

“There you go! Perfect!” He rests his forehead against my hip bone for a few seconds, all the thanks and acknowledgment I need. [translation = more than] He skips towards the pool and hurls himself in with glee. [translation = wet all over but no wetsuit.] I stand next to the soiled wetsuit.

[translation = how do you wash them when they’re in that condition?]
Should I have posted this in "Alien" instead?

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