MARTHAâS MUSINGS ON MORTALITY
We had returned from walking our old and permanently tired dog around the local graveyard for an hour in the unseasonal and, indeed, decidedly non-British late March sunshine. This entailed an hour of either Martha or myself having to pretend to be a dog while the non-pretend dog of us threw a stick, and the non-pretend actual real life dog ignored every hurl of the stick, preferring instead to sniff round in search of tiny round nuggets of wild rabbit poo to devour and clumps of fox shit to drop her shoulder in and lay on her back to really get the fox shit embedded into her fur, wriggling around like something very excited to be covering its back in actual faeces. Delightful. On more than one occasion, I had to remind Martha dog that, while I applauded her commitment to the role (and I donât mean the roll in fox shit), the stick DID NOT belong in her mouth. In terms of enthusiasm for the role of pretend dog, Martha definitely beat me. My apathetic mutterings of âwoof woofâ as I walked in non-dog like fashion to bend over and pick up a stick whilst being as human as I could to passers by didnât go unnoticed by Martha the drama teacher.
âDaaaaaad?â The elongated dad was always framed as the vaguest of questions.
âYou canât speak. Youâre a dogâ.
I cranked up my best Scooby Doo (or, more phonetically, âRooby Rooâ) impression. âRatâs right Rartha, riâm a roggâ. I was so pleased with its accuracy That made one of us.
âYouâre being a rubbish dog. You need to try HARDER Dadâ.
âRuck off Rartha, ruck right offâ.
Half way round the graveyard, Martha spied some daffodils. Now she LOVES a good daffodil. She even loves a bad daffodil.
âDaaaaad, can I pick those flowers?â
âNo love. They have already been picked, and then bought from a shop by a person who has put them on the grave of where someone is buried, so that they can remember them. It wouldnât be kind to take themâ.
âOkayyyyyyy. What about THOSE flowers?â
âWell, they are not picked, and are not growing on a grave, which means that they are wild so, yes, I guess soâ. Martha picked 3,463 wild daffodils and carried them home to give to mum as a Motherâs Day gift.
We followed the poor non-pretend, real life actual dog-tired dog home, and Martha went to set up a tea party in the back garden while I prepared her current favourite tea - pizza. This is Martha, so it was never going to just be as simple as making a bog standard circular pizza. Her brief this week was for me to get a sharp knife and cut around the shape of my hand, then do the same with the other hand, creating a left and right hand shaped pair of pizzas for her plate. I uttered a half arsed protest about being made to wield an extremely sharp blade in my non-cutting hand and trace it in close proximity to the delicate digits of my actual useful hand, knowing that the suggestion of using my left hand to cut around my right hand twice and then flipping the base over to create a left hand, with the added bonus of not losing any fingers would be dismissed in an instant by the tiny food prep dictator currently standing on her bright yellow modified Ikea Grundfaar (or some such like name) step stool, supervising my pizza cutting with a laser focus.
âDaaaaad, the knife isnât close enough to your fingersâ.
âSorry love, Iâm not used to really using my right hand, because Iâm left handedâ.
âThatâs fine dad, just practice. Is that tomato sauce?â
âNo Martha, itâs a teeny bit of bloodâ.
âItâs okay, Iâll cut that finger off the pizza, just like Iâve done with my actual handâ.
I was left to finish making the pizza and self-administer first aid, while Martha set up the tea party. About three minutes later, Martha appeared clutching a posy of artificial flowers, looking to all the World like a kid from an NSPCC fundraiser (âlittle Christabel will never get to smell flowers, because her dad sold her nose to buy booze. With YOUR help, we can stop thisâ.) She had her âbig ideaâ face on. I waited to hear what the big idea was.
âYes my little pumpkin?â
âWhen you are ready to die, I am going to bury you in the graveyard and put these flowers on your graveâ.
Many questions raced through my mind. Was my four-year-old daughter plotting to euthanize me? Were my groans of âoh dearâ when forced to carry her my shoulders interpreted as a sign of my rapid decline to the warm embrace of death? What the actual fuck? I thought it wisest to let her know that I was onto her evil plan.
âThatâs nice Martha, but Iâm not quite ready to die yetâ.
âYes dad, I KNOW THAT. But you will be ready one day, and Iâm going to bury you and put these flowers on your graveâ.
âPizza is ready. Do you want right hand, or left hand with extra tomato?â