Clearly, through my twitter feed I portray myself as a Dan Hughes/Bryon Post über dad.
This is a thinly veiled facade.
A recent interaction.
Me: Flossy, I understand that you're angry, but if you don't stop calling me names I think we're going to have to cancel football. (Dan Hughes voice)
F: So, your going to take football off me? Stupid (Shouting, with a hint of sarcasm)
Me: Only if you don't stop calling me names. (Bryon Post voice)
F: Why should I stop, you've just taken my football off me. You're the worst dad in the world. (Shouting)
M:No, I said "if you don't stop calling me names" I'd take it off you. (Bryon Hughes voice)
F: You did not, I've lost my football, waaaaaaaa, I wish I didn't live with you, I wish I'd stayed with birth mammy.
Repeat the last two interactions 5 or 6 times. It felt like more.
Flossy leaves, I am left alone, exasperated. That crazy ambivalent/disorganised blend.
My inner Dan Hughes crumbles.
And with no audience for comedic effect I scrunch myself into a ball and make a writhing, primeval sound and my outer Basil Fawlty prevails.
Strangly, I feel better.