Bear with me. Direct proportion: where ratios remain constant. Inverse proportion: the relation between two quantities where one increases as the other decreases.
The proportions in this house are out of control. Some, the nice, clingable onto ones, are direct. They stay the same, they never vary. If something is hideously pink, I know daughter will want to wear it hideously often. If I lack, say 5 hours sleep, I know the kids will misbehave for 5 hours. If the phone rings and I am on it for 5 minutes, 5 bad things will have been done by the time I get off it. 10 pence gets 10 pic n' mix, and only on the bottom row, kids, from that weird shop where the good people of Chatteris can buy elderly jelly sweets and all the model aircraft they could ever want. The amount of Tories in the cabinet is directly related to the tax breaks rich people get. The march of time in 2 weekly periods is directly related to the appearance of 14 more grey hairs on my head. For every 5,000 chicken pellets in the bag in the shed, there will be one fat mouse. The amount of bubbles in the bath is directly proportional to the amount of time I can leave the kids in it.The amount of Tories in charge in Fenland is directly proportional to the amount of people who don't vote, and thus leave it up to about 40 old people to elect. The amount of newsprint in the local rag directed at Chatteris is directly proportional to the amount of interest the editor has in it, ie: none.
But many things are inversely proportional. If I make a huge effort and invest hours in cooking a meal, the kids will not eat it and spend 5 minutes decrying it. If, on the other hand, I spend 5 minutes bunging crap under a grill and serving it on a waffle, they'll eat it and ask for more. If they are, perchance, invited to the house of a charming, well behaved child, their behaviour will decrease in inverse proportion to the charm of the other. Hence today, charming child is pleasing and thanking and eating all the prepared lunch, while Inverse Kids, (their new anti-super-hero monikers) , are denying they EVER eat tuna sandwiches and weeping, while I berate them and drag them to a naughty step, which is not covered in snot like ours, and has clean carpet on it. "It's fluffy!" they grin, and don't mind sitting there in the least. Similarly, as my need for a glass of wine and rest increases, the hereforto complete knackeredness of the children vanishes, and they are up, lark like, with interminable questions about weather systems and how bowels work, hours past bedtime. The amount of people saying "So! 40!" in a jaunty "life begins" way, directly decreased my enjoyment of turning 40. The increase in damp weather decreases the hens laying me eggs, which is a bugger, as it increases me need for vast amounts of cake. The metabolism required to burn off vast amounts of cake decreases, as my age increases. The huge effort I put into the quilt, the dress, the toy, is vastly underappreciated, while the skirt I made out of a pillowcase in 10 minutes is loved. The attractive, expensive doll is left, the ugly boss eyed, no-legged doll is loved. Really, no legs. She's called Poppy. The increased amount of Tories in the government = less spending on the needy. The more I want the Winter to end, the longer it lasts. The longer a man has man flu, so the sympathy in the spouse wanes. The more I go around switching off lightswitches like my nan used to, the bigger my bills appear. The more time the kids are at school and playgroup, the less time I actually appear to have. The more school runs I do, the chunkier my legs get, and that's NOT WHAT I WANTED TO HAPPEN.
This post is directly proportional to the amount of 40 I am. And it's also a bit cross about this chart, here, which tells me variously that I am a size 10-14, 16 up top in some shops. The Guardian today post a chart that tells you the actual measurements of what size is what in each major lady shop. No wonder I get so mad in Top Shop. Not that I'm allowed in now. I think they laserbeam you if you're 40, a bit Logans' run-ish.