Who's The Daddy: Daughters can get a taste of their own medicine

There is a chance, albeit a slim one, that daughter #1 and daughter #2 could be sharing a flat together in Manchester for three months later this year. And if that glorious day should ever come, a few things will happen.
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Me and the boss will turn up after work, in a huff, immediately raid the cupboards for crisps, chocolate or biscuits and then slump in front of the TV to watch back-to-back episodes of Catfish or whatever the hell the Kardashians do all day to warrant their own show.

Ask what’s for dinner, that we’re not cooking, then moan about it. If there’s onions in it, there could be tears, temper tantrums and outright refusals. If it’s broccoli bake, then it’s getting launched off the third-floor terrace.

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Give one-word, monosyllabic answers to every question about our day at work. And when pushed for more detail, throw a supermodel-style hissy fit that would shame a mollycoddled Premier League footballer when a throw-in isn’t given his way.

Very messy, cluttered bedroom. Photo: AdobeVery messy, cluttered bedroom. Photo: Adobe
Very messy, cluttered bedroom. Photo: Adobe

Turn the heating up full whack and make a point of switching on every single light in the flat. At all times. If challenged, noisily storm out of the room with extra loud stampy feet, slamming the door behind us. Like we own the place.

Constantly moan about the wi-fi. When I say moan, I mean throw raging Roy Keane-style fits when the speed drops below 60Mbps.

Tell everyone how bored we are. While gawping into our phones every minute of every hour between dinner and bedtime. Oh, and leave wet towels lying around on the floor and on beds for hours. And whatever we do, NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER flush the toilet after we’ve dumped our bangers and mash in there. Someone else’ll do that.

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If we have a big project at work that needs to be completed for the following day that requires a ton of resources, we’ll wait for our kids to discover the paperwork in our bags about an hour before bedtime. Then feign surprise at their outrage.

Ask for lifts to the other side of town, seemingly on a whim, at a moment’s notice. Often during rush hour. And we’ll want picking up again a few hours later.

Roll in, half-cut, at dawn, having turned our phones off around midnight to avoid those pesky “where the hell are you?” calls from home. And then wonder why everyone’s yelling.

Bring all our dirty washing, obviously. Towels, bedding, the lot. But we’re not doing it. We’ll leave it for a couple of days, stinking like a wet dog, until one of them finally breaks and does it all for us. And, er, don’t forget the conditioner, and that top needs to be hand washed.

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Our room will soon resemble a yard sale for a collection of plates, cups and glasses that have been lying around for more than a week. Clothes will be hung up on the floor, the curtains will remain closed at all times and if Environmental Health ever get wind of it, they’ll be round in hazmat suits by the end of the day as we treat the place like a hotel.

Our friends will come and go as they please. At all times of the day and night. And they want feeding. And the food had better improve if you want us to pay rent.

And we’d do it all with a smile and a wink. Because what goes around, comes around.

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