Scrabble is the problem, and the solution

I slept poorly once again (do I ever do anything else these days?), but awoke late and got up to find Ottawacker Jr. was out on a (you’ll never guess) bus ride. So, I wandered up the stairs to the office and watched Liverpool’s first pre-season friendly against Preston North End. I always enjoy pre-season friendlies, a chance to see new tactics and players, but today was a little different as it was the first game since Diogo Jota died and emotions are still pretty raw. I really am a disaster around these sort of things. I am the type of person for whom rom-coms were made and that Hallmark executives target. I can’t watch the Lion King, I can’t get through All About A Boy without tearing up, show me a 30-second clip of someone being kind and I am on the floor bawling my eyes out. So, there was no chance I was getting through this without a box of tissues. However, the whole thing was impeccably handled and, hopefully, that has mainly drawn a line under it for me.
 
Anyway, the game was fine and Liverpool won 3-1. Afterwards I got my head down and did a chunk of the translation. It went better than previously, so I was happy enough around 3pm to stop and head back down to the bosom of my family. As suspected, Ottawacker Jr.’s arm was good enough for him to go to his double practice – but just as we were starting to nag him to get ready, they were both cancelled. Having reached temperatures in the high 30s, a big storm was rolling in. Thunder, lightning, twisters, locusts, probably poisonous toads being dropped from the sky in some places… all in all, a good enough reason to not go out. So, we played Scrabble.
 
Were you to ask Ottawacker Jr. what his least favourite thing in the world was, Scrabble would be right up there. He is very good at it – for his age – and has discovered the trick of winning. The trick to winning in our family is to sit next to his mother. Mrs. Ottawacker is a complete disaster at Scrabble. She is intelligent, articulate, finds words and spots patterns easily. She is, in addition, a lovely, kind, wonderful person. And that is the flaw. She would rather play a small word that sets up the board for a “good game” than stick the knife into the person sitting next to her. Not sitting next to her is like having teeth drawn without anaesthetic. She’ll have an “x” and/or a “z” and play a word, just leaving enough room next to the Triple Word square for someone, Ottawacker Jr. say, to come in and play an “s” or an “es”. Every. Single. Time. “I’m just playing for the board,” she’ll say, as I scream abuse at her. Meanwhile, Ottawacker Jr. sits there quietly chortling, having racked up 200 points because he managed to put an “s” on “xylophone” or something. “Never mind, dad, I’m sure you’ll get something soon,” he says. “Oh no, I forgot, you’re not sitting next to mum.”
 
Of course, being cunning and devious myself, I have also devised strategies. Top of this list is Never Playing Scrabble. If, say, an unnatural urge takes hold and I succumb to Mrs. Ottawacker’s Scrabble doe eyes, I make sure she is sitting at our table, get myself a drink, and then sit to her left. Then I tell Ottawacker Jr. he has the choice of either playing Scrabble or having a shower. Once the three of us are playing, and it soon becomes clear that he hasn’t got a hope in hell of winning, I take great pleasure in repeating his lines to him, especially as I add a triple-word-plural to something like “oxtail” or “zip”. He has enough success in his life. A good, sound thrashing at Scrabble is good for his character.
 
Anyway, having racked up a score in excess of 250 (good for me), he and I decamped to the kitchen and made dinner. I put a selection of ingredients in front of him (including the staples of harissa paste, garlic, honey, onions) and let him choose how we were cooking the chicken. We had a stir-fry, which he prepared and cooked, and which was absolutely delicious. Ah! This is why people have large families, isn’t it? You get them all to an age, wind them up, and put your feet up with a glass of wine.
 
Don’t you?