Pan

My mother and I share a love of the internet, if we’re not looking at videos of cats falling off bookshelves we’re watching puppies trying to talk, I think it’s a symptom of our own lack of a domesticated animal, perhaps when you get an animal of your own watching video’s of them on YouTube becomes less of a priority in life. Our second favourite thing to watch on the internet falls under the category ‘grand romantic gesture’, proposals made in the form of a flash mob in a DIY store, declarations of love spelled out with thousands of fire breathers dancing on beaches while trained whales sing an orca song, the internet has ensured the bar is set pretty high for any man or woman deciding to propose to their significant other.

One such video doing the rounds is of Peter pan proposing marriage to Wendy during a massive stage play in the newly constructed flying saucer which is the HYDRO in Glasgow. I was convinced it was a swimming pool given its name, I was wrong. The teaming cast mid a stirring rendition of ‘you raise me up’ stop, Wendy looks perplexed and peter looks like a 30 year old lizard man with a plan. He speaks to the audience in a thick Dutch accent, starting is sentence with “so” as is the way of the Dutch. At this point it’s important to point out that a) my mother and I are watching this video clip on the main television in the living room b) my father is in the room and c) my father has Aspergers and is easily irritated by odd things… on with the tale.

Dutch, lizard man, Peter informs the audience what usually happens at the end of this play, my father’s interest is piqued

“Why’s that man saying what usually happens? Why’s he not just doing it?” he questions, his voice and eyebrows both rising only slightly.

“He’s going to propose dad!” I say dreamily, awed by the sheer scale and drama of such a public and ‘romantic’ proposition.

“And ruin the fucking play for people who’ve paid to see it?” Father says back, his tone and eyebrows rising further.

A good indication of my father’s mood is to measure the distance between his hairline and his eyebrows, I’m sure in the evolution of the human that’s why they were kept in, as a gauge to measure incredulity and rage in my father.

“It’s romantic dad!” I say hoping he’ll shut up so I can see the actual proposal. Father goes silent, I press play and it continues, Dutch Peter who looks like a middle-aged reptile continues, he points out Wendy’s Parents and that she’s from this city, he stumbles over his words.

“People who can’t speak shouldn’t fucking be allowed to” My father now squeals in a pitch only I and small dogs can hear… his eyebrows are now only a centimetre away from his hairline… we are in dangerous territory here.

“He’s just nervous papa.” I say placating him, using the name I called him as a small child in the knowledge that this usually calms him.

“He’s a fucking actor… he..” he stands up to clarify his point “he shouldn’t…” he’s gotten tangled in the wires of the Homedics massaging chair cover I got him for Christmas which has made him angrier “He shouldn’t be fucking nervous”

Father storms into the kitchen, mother is laughing she thinks this is hysterical. I hit play. Peter, an adult playing a small boy, talks of how he’s been in the play for years with Wendy and how he loves her, the over excited cast of dancers and stage school alumni scream and cheer excitedly, they know what’s coming.

“He’s been watching her for years? Is he a fucking Stalker?” Dad roars furiously re-entering the living room with a macaroon which he’s carefully sliced into strips to prolong the eating experience.

“No dad they’ve worked together for years, they’ve been dating… he’s not just asking…” I am interrupted, eyebrows are no longer visible, his face the colour of a plum and his voice so high if this was a slap stick movie from the 1950’s glasses would be smashing all over the place.

“How Do you know? How do you know he’s not just a stalker who’s asking her to marry him in front of all those people because he knows she’ll need to say yes… mmm?” his face is close to mine, macaroon pieces stuck to his beard “How do you know? Do you know these people?” he probes further, my eyebrows are now starting to rise… I am my father’s daughter, mother continues to laugh.

“I know cause it say’s so here in this interview” I point to the Buzz feed page with quotes from Wendy and Peter.

“How do you know internet’s not lying? The news lied to me the other day about Andy Murray!” Dad screams as if this odd comment has proven him right.

“When I get proposed to you better not be any where near me!” I shout pointing my stubby fingers in accusation… this statement actually makes him laugh “Maybe you should just talk about this in therapy” I conclude folding my arms and refusing to look at my plum faced eyebrow-less father

.

“I’m not wasting my good therapy session on FUCKING STALKY PETER PAN.” Father yells dropping the crunchy bit of macaroon, the bit he was saving for last, because as everyone knows that’s the best bit.

“For fucksake go to your bed” I groan shaking my head, wondering how we ever got in a fight about this.

“I’ll tell you one thing…” he takes a swig of milk leaving him with a white moustache “See if I was in that audience I’d have booed and demanded my money back, they’ve just ruined a magical experience for all those children. I hope you’re Dutch pal’s happy… Selfish Bastard.” He declares before slamming out of the living room and into his own sanctum, I hear him muttering through the wall.

“It’s your own fault” mum says tears rolling down her face from all the laughing, she’ll probably ‘tweet’ about this and folk I don’t know will favourite her condensed version and maybe even retweet.

I play the end of the video, Wendy cries happily and accepts the proposal, I study her face to see any sign of her being the victim of a psychopathic stalker who’s putting her in an awkward position, there is none, she seems in love. A giant dog dances happily on the stage as the couple embrace, drama students squeal, the audience applaud politely, I find myself irritated by the whole Brechtian display, my eyebrows creep up my forehead, my face grows redder… I am my father’s daughter.

He storms back In “That other Macaroon is for you, cut it up before you eat it, it makes it better.”