There I was 9.15 am one Sunday morning several years, coming out of my bedroom. At exactly the same time as my 23 year old son was. We were both heading for the same place.
“I’m only going to wash my face and clean my teeth,” I said.
I’m only going for a wee, he replied.
For half a second we looked at one another. Both with the same though. Who was going to be the quickest?
We grinned and then clenched his fist and said, “On the count of 3.”
I touched my fist to my palm three times and did ‘scissors’, which beat his ‘rock’.
“No, no, no,” he said, “On the count of three.”
So I did it again, one, two three, scissors.
Can’t you count, he said. And for a second, I was confused. So we did it again before I realised what he meant – one, two and choose your weapon on number three, not after it.
He won or cheated and I was left scratching my head on the landing.