My brother and his wife left the house twenty-three seconds ago. Yes, seconds. Because I hear the front door slam as I'm taking a piss.
Then I hear someone try the bathroom door. To me, that is the most off-putting thing to happen if you're trying to perform a bodily function. When I'm out in public, I will spend extra minutes finding a completely empty restroom, so I can focus. Now there is a knock.
- Just a minute.
- Uncle Lex..?
- Yeah, just a sec.
I finish up in the bathroom, and open the door.
It's Theo, the six-year-old. He's holding out his chunky forearm. On it, is a raised, angry-looking scratch, several inches long.
- The puppy did it, Uncle Lex.
He looks embarrassed, because we keep telling him the dog is not an action-figure, and he has to stop hassling it.
Great, I'm thinking. Shall I just call my brother back? He's probably only just got into his car. All I can think of is to wash the wound, but it seems too simple. My brother probably has a whole procedure in place. They're like that, parents. A hotline, even, to a specialist unit, in case anything happens.
- Let's just wash it under the tap, and get it clean.
- Okay.
We wash it, making sure the water is hot, but not too hot. We dry his arm with a stiff towel. It still looks pretty bad for a scratch. I'm starting to think, blood poisoning, septicaemia.
I'm giving him twenty minutes to live.
Then, for the rest of my life, I'm gonna be one of those babysitting relatives who let a kid croak on his watch.
He rubs it with his other palm.
-It itches Lex.
I point out that he has been stroking the dog with that hand, and we will need to wash the wound again. He slaps his forehead and exclaims -Doh! - Homer-style.
After we have repeated the procedure, I ask where the plasters are. He knows straight away, they're right by the pile of fresh laundry, next to us. I delve into the box, and retrieve a long plaster that will just about cover the entire length of the scratch.
- This will teach you not to harass that dog. It's not a toy, you know.
With the over-size plaster, it now looks like the kid has been in some kind of knife-fight, or a child vs. rottweiler incident. Or maybe they're doing Trainspotting for the Christmas play.
I start thinking: I don't want my brother to suspect that I can't even look after his kids for a couple of minutes - let alone a couple of hours. He pays me in curries, so I can't afford to lose this gig.
What we need is a story. One that Theo needs to be able to recite, so we're consistent.
- What shall we tell your dad?
It needs to be something that sounds good. I'd just seen the first Narnia film, so right there and then, I'm inspired.
- Why don't we say we went for a walk, and you were attacked by a lion?
Theo nods. But not quite enthusiastically enough for my liking.
- Or maybe you were walking in the woods, and were savaged by some kind of ferocious beast?
He purses his lips and looks up at the bathroom ceiling. He usually does this when either coming up with a humdinger of an idea, or being completely bewildered - usually the latter.
Meanwhile, my imagination is getting the better of me.
- Maybe you fought it, and ripped it's leg off? Hence the scratch?
A pause. Then he goes -
- I think we'll just tell the truth, Uncle Lex.
- Really? - Damn, I'm kind of disappointed.
-Yeah. We'll say it was a wolf.
