DADDY TELLS THE TALES

Dressed in his favourite turquoise jumper and khaki trousers, Charlie looked like the happiest 5 year old in the world. With Space Jam playing on the DVR and Charlie armed with crayons and paint. Only a twister ice lolly could have made the day any better. His dark brown hair parted in the centre showed one of the many black paint smudges on his face. His eyes followed the blue crayon across the living room wall as the sound of his mothers heels clip clopped across the hallway floor. ‘CHARLIE!’ his mother screamed as Charlie swiftly turned around. ‘Eh...What’s up, doc?’ Charlie jokingly responded. While jittering his teeth as if nibbling on a carrot. Much to his fuming dentist mothers displeasure. ‘What are you doing?’ his mother aggressively asked. Sincerely chuckling, there is nothing sweeter. ‘I’m drawing mummy. See, see look here.’ Charlie lifted his finger to point before continuing. ‘You stupid boy! Why on earth would you paint on the walls?’ she roared upon interrupting. She’d never yelled at him like that before. ‘Buster did it’ Charlie quickly declared, pointing to our dumbfounded dog Buster on his left. Dog can’t fetch a ball, let alone lift a brush. He could tell his mother was having none of it from the growing expression of rage upon her face. Charlie’s eyes had widened in terror and confusion as he began to tremble. After all, it wasn’t his entire fault. He can’t be blamed for his mother’s ghastly cream walls that make for the perfect desert setting. It was the ideal place for his green and yellow dinosaur to do battle with his red and black stripped pirate. In fact it was obvious. The red shaped hand prints and wavy blue crayon lines spiralling from wallpapered wall to hardware flooring were the obvious work of a budding artist. His mother wouldn’t agree, but Vincent Van Gogh would. ‘Well, what do you have to say for yourself?’ his mother asked in a hostile tone. Charlie silently looked to her with a baffled look on his face. It took a while but he got it. Guilt had sprung up on him quicker than Road Runner could sprint from Wile E. Coyote. He was a blubbering mess as his words were muddled in a mixture of screams and squeals. ‘Well?’ his mother asked. Charlie gently began to scratch the red paint from his tiny hands as he attempted to conquer his sobbing. With his head lowered, fixating on the paint stained cream carpet and feet clipping back and forth he tried to wipe away his tears. You could tell he just wanted to knock a few glasses of orange juice back and forget it ever happened. But that wasn’t an option. He looked to his fuming mothers face. A tear ran down Charlie’s chubby cheek, smearing a black smudge of paint as he muffled; ‘Sorry Mummy’ No telly and no toys for a week. I doubt he’ll make that mistake again.