He's going straight to hell for that one...

I know we’re not supposed to laugh at other people’s misfortune, but this was the funniest thing I have ever heard a 5 year old boy say.  It was also the most irreverent and by far, the most audacious.

As a boy, I went to a catholic primary school in a middle class area in Kent.  The school was attached in some way to the local church and was run by a lovely nun.  Although the catchment area was predominantly middle class, there were small pockets within the catchment area that were, how shall we put it, a bit rough around the edges. 

Being a ‘church’ school we often had the local priest show up to say mass.  This meant the whole school getting together in the assembly hall, along with teachers and any parents that wanted to attend. 

On this particular occasion there was a good turnout of parents and the hall was full to bursting point.  The priest that showed up was known to be very much a ‘straight’ kind of man, no jokes; not many smiles.  As usual there was always a bit of a build up; the hustle and bustle of ferrying 200 children into a school hall, a few words from the head-teacher, then us children singing hymns with the accompaniment of the decrepit old piano teacher.

Then in comes the priest in all his ceremonial wear.  I’ve never really understood why priests, vicars, bishops etc. wear those long flowing robes, more importantly nor did one little boy, let’s call him Derek.  He perhaps hadn’t attended too many church services in his short life, as his grasp of the proper etiquette was somewhat lacking. 

Anyway, in walks the priest. He says a few words of welcome and then pauses for a moment of contemplation.  The entire gathering is silent.  That’s when 5 year old Derek, from one of the slightly rougher parts of town, chose his moment to ask his genuine question.  His comic timing was a thing of pure beauty.  If memory serves me correctly, I believe I’m quoting him verbatim...Derek, sitting cross-legged on the front row, shouts out: “who’s the fucking cunt in the dress?”

A few gasps, some muffled sniggers and Derek was escorted from the scene...

Sold to the man with the mullet haircut!

When I moved into my current house, my wife and I were thrilled to finally have some more space.  We could start doing proper grown-up things like inviting people over for dinner. As soon as the boxes were unpacked we arranged a long boozy weekend lunch with some friends.  Then we realised; we had the space but not enough chairs. 

Having just gone through the expense of moving, we certainly didn’t have any money left to go out buying furniture and I’ve never really liked Ikea. Our house is more ‘shabby chic’ than that – well...we’ve got the shabby part; still working on the chic bit. We were in a bit of pickle until my brother suggested I try the local auctions.

I’d always associated auctions with rich people buying paintings for the price of a 3 bed semi in the Midlands.  How wrong I was.  As you drive deeper into the Surrey countryside, near Ripley, there's a huge ‘Ewbank Clarke Gammon Wellers Auctions’ sign on the side of a building.  Although I’d seen this sign many times, I’d never actually been in.  The idea of going to an auction was a bit daunting – I didn’t want to look like a novice but I had a deadline, so I went along.

There’s something fascinating about watching people walk into an auction room.  As soon as they cross the threshold, in their minds, they become antique experts.  The hands are tucked behind the back and the chin struts out ever so slightly. They pick up an object and inspect it closely through an imaginary pair of spectacles perched on the end of their nose. It all felt a bit earnest.

This presented me with a problem. I’m rather fond of a bit of mischief, especially in formal situations like these. I’ve been like it all my life; sitting in church as a boy was particularly testing.  All these de facto antiques experts milling around, was like a red rag to a bull.  I was in dangerous territory.

Anyway, there were a few chairs with guide prices of £30-£40, so I went to the sale day to bid for them. The atmosphere here is very different – this is the part where money changes hands at speed. As the auctioneer works his way through the lots, and the one you want approaches, your heart starts racing and you start to squirm around in your seat.

Thankfully, when ‘my chairs’ came up there wasn’t much interest and I managed to steal them away for the princely sum of £5 each.  I’ve never had as much fun buying furniture, as I did at this auction. 

When the hammer came down and the deal was done, I was so pleased with my bargain buys that my resolve cracked and my sense of mischief got the better of me. I held up my registration number card and when the auctioneer asked me my name, with a huge grin on my face, I simply couldn’t resist answering ‘Lovejoy’...    

Quick, the rozzers...act normal

I like to think I’m a reasonably accomplished driver, I'm a bloke after all.  I was therefore dismayed to receive an official looking letter through the post recently, from Surrey Police. The general flavour of which was that I had ‘contravened the 1861 Speed Act’ or whatever it was, and unless I paid a fine and polished the chief inspector’s shoes for the next month, I’d be sent to a penal colony in the middle of the Indian Ocean. 

They don’t hold back with those letters do they – they like to stick it to you.  My crime was that I’d been flashed by a speed camera doing 35mph in a 30mph zone. From the tone of the letter however, anyone would have thought I’d made off with the crown jewels and was in for nothing short of a public hanging.  After I recovered from the mild stroke this shock gave me, I noticed at the bottom of the letter they were offering me a ‘get out of jail free card’.

‘HOWEVER’...it said, if you agree to attend one of our speed awareness courses which incidentally will cost you slightly more than the fine, we’ll let you off the three points on your licence. Ok. For an extra £10, I get to keep my driving licence as clean as a whistle.  Sounds good; I’m in.

I imagined the course would consist of us ‘crims’ being shown videos of nasty traffic accidents and that I’d probably be the only one there, old enough to grow a proper beard.  Mercifully it was nothing like that.

On arriving, I was immediately surprised to find the other people attending the course were mostly, how can I put it...septuagenarians.  There were so many silver tops in there I thought I’d arrived at an old fashioned dairy.  Most of them looked like sweet little old ladies and harmless dignified gents.  Not quite the hardened criminal underworld I was expecting. Like me, most of them had been flashed doing 35mph in a 30mph zone.

The course was run by ex-police officers and it was excellent.  I learnt so much I can’t praise it highly enough.  I was never a fast driver but the pace of modern life sometimes influences your driving.  Inevitably you’re late for something and the speed creeps up. We all do it. Seeing as the majority of traffic accidents occur in 30mph zones, probably by otherwise law abiding citizens, I can see why they gave me the option of attending the course.  It has transformed the way I drive.

There were no ghoulish videos for us to watch, just sound common sense advice about how to break the bad driving habits we all pick up. If you ever receive ‘the letter’ and there’s an option to attend the course, do it.  I think every-one should as soon as they pass their test, not just those that have been caught speeding.  If we were better educated we might not get into bad habits in the first place.

Life before children; better or worse?

A few days ago, I was looking through the files on my old computer when I came across a speech I wrote for the get together we organised, to celebrate the birth of our first child. It was quite a moving speech that reflected the feelings of a brand new parent.  My baby son was only three months old and I was very much still enjoying the delirium that follows the birth of your first child.  I just thought I’d share it with the group...

In it I talked about my life before my children were born. How, sometimes I felt like I was walking along a very long road but facing backwards. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t actually turn round to face the right way.  I could only just about see ahead of me but it was foggy and unclear.  I could see the events that had happened in my past, some of them in full sunshine, some with black clouds overhead.

Then one day I was having my haircut and while chatting to the girl, the subject of marriage and children came up.  She asked me “do you think you’ll ever get married and have children?”  Being a typical bloke I said “yeah maybe one day”.  I had been living with my girlfriend quite happily for many years but in my head the whole marriage and children thing had no definite timeline. She then said something quite profound.  “You never know, it could be the making of you”.  For her it was probably just a throwaway line but it resonated with me and made me question it.  She could be right.

Over the next couple of days I kept asking myself the question and every time I did, it felt as if my head started to slowly face the right way. Something just clicked, I could now see ahead of me but it was still just darkness.

Then on May 13^th my baby boy was born.  It was like the sun had come out and immediately I could see a path clearly lit up ahead of me; no more darkness. So in answer to the question at the top of this piece, I’d say yes thankfully for me life is better now I have children.  I feel there is a purpose.  I don’t mean life is easier, it isn’t.  In fact at times it feels much more difficult but it’s more fulfilling.

Although I’m still a rookie at this parenting lark, I’ve learned that it’s about coping with highs and lows. One could argue of course that’s no different from life before children. You’d be right, except when you have children, the highs are much higher and the lows much lower.  Life before children was about coasting along; you can afford the luxury of being selfish.  With children you have to give of your substance not just your surplus.  Once you accept it and embrace it however – it’s wonderful. 

So I’d like to publicly thank, in front of the group, my beautiful wife and my beautiful children for bringing the sunlight in to my life.  Ok...group hug; and I’ll sit down.  Now it’s your turn, feel free to leave comments about your experience before and after children. Or if you have a blog, maybe write a post about the same subject – let me know about it and I’ll visit your blog and leave a comment.

PS. Don’t worry there won’t be a collection on the way out, I’m not religious, actually I’m an atheist...thank God!

The bigger the lie, the more believable it is...

Is it wrong that children tell lies?  I did.  They weren’t malicious, more like embellishments to make life more interesting.  When I was 5 years old I had, what can only be described as a creative imagination.  This made my ‘show and tell’ stories rather different from other children’s.

My classmates would stand up and tell stories of visits to the zoo or some such.  However there are only so many times you can hear about otters before you get a bit bored. I thought it would be more exciting to jazz the stories up a bit. Of course the world of your average 5 year old isn’t that exciting so this meant delving into the fascinating realms of falsehood.

One morning, when the teacher asked if anyone had any stories to share with the class, I immediately shot my hand high in the air. I was bursting to share with the group the exciting events that had happened to me over the weekend. 

As was the custom in the 1970s (health and safety executives look away now, this is likely to give you heart palpitations) I proudly stood up on my chair and announced to the class that over the weekend I had swum across The English Channel.

For any 5 year old, this was a hard sell.  It was made even more unbelievable by the fact that I couldn’t swim... and everybody knew it.  In fact I didn’t even like swimming.  My Dad would often take us swimming on Saturday mornings and I used to dread it.  I wasn’t very tall for my age and the shallow end in swimming pools then was 3ft.  I was about 3ft 4”, which meant I never really gained the necessary confidence to simply whoosh off and start swimming.

Nevertheless, I was so convinced that I’d swum the channel that I stuck to my story unreservedly.  What I found incredible was that once the story session was over, some of the other kids actually came over and asked what it was like. Was it cold, did I have to put all that white greasy stuff on me – “oh no” I said, “I wore a wetsuit”, another whopper. I didn’t have a wetsuit.  Of course I didn’t, I was only 3ft 4”.

It was all in the delivery. I don’t know where my self confidence came from but I learnt something very useful that day.  I realised that if you sound convincing enough, some people will believe you. If I ever find out how to teach that sort of self-confidence to my children, I’ll teach them.  You need a bit of chutzpah these days.  However I do feel that I’ve somewhat wasted my talents; I clearly should have been a politician.

I can resist everything...except temptation

About a year ago I was very nearly banned from my local library.  This is a new one for me, an all time low.  I’ve been banned from pubs before; I’ve even been banned from a school rugby field, but never from a library.  On reflection the librarian probably did have a point.  However, there were no signs stating that a grown man couldn’t ride a child’s trike inside the library.

Let me explain.  When I was growing up my father was very strict.  Partly due to the fact that there were so many of us; I have four brothers, and partly due to the fact that he was just that type of bloke.  He wasn’t someone who messed about; he was a serious man. Quite how he managed to produce me, the complete opposite, is a mystery.  You see, I enjoy mischief.  In fact, it’s my raison d’etre.

As a result of my Dickensian upbringing, I promised myself that if I ever had children I would fool about with them.  So, when one day, my then two year old son asked me if he could ride his trike to the library, it was music to my ears.  There was an opportunity here for some fun and my inner devil simply couldn’t resist the temptation.

Initially it was just a straightforward father and son scenario – me pushing him along the pavement towards the library.  However, it is the very straightforwardness of it all that put me into the danger zone.  I’m not good at mediocrity; I always look to spice things up a bit.  I can’t help it.  So as we went along the pavement, I suggested that I sat on the trike and he push me.  I can still picture the sheer delight on his little face. He immediately burst out laughing and continued to laugh, as I dramatically attempted to sit on his trike.  Like me, he could obviously appreciate the visual humour and the physical absurdity of the scene.   

The trike in question was one of those really simple old fashioned wooden affairs and I could just about manage to sit on it. With my knees literally up by my chin and his little hands on my back pushing with all his might, we slowly crawled along the pavement until we reached the library – both of us roaring with laughter the whole way. At this point I should have got off the trike, but to be honest I couldn’t; I was stuck.  Once you get yourself into such a tight crunch, it’s not that easy to get up again, so I went into the library and rode around the aisles.

It wasn't long before 'the beard and sandals' came over and gave me the 'look'. Although she was quite polite about it! I needed a quick exit but I had gone down a one way aisle.  What followed was a test of patience for the librarian and a test of my poker face - she won that one.  I couldn't get up off the trike so I had to carry out a three point turn.  Except the turning circle on a trike isn't very generous so the manoeuvre turned into an Austin Powers moment with me going backwards and forwards over and over again until I finally managed to get the trike pointing in the right direction.  Throughout this whole episode I'm afraid I was giggling uncontrollably, which didn't go down well with the librarian.  My son however, loved it.

                                                                                      

A few weeks later I was telling one of my brothers the story and he said to me: “can you ever imagine Dad doing this with us, when we were kids?” No, absolutely not.  And that’s the point – as a child I would have loved it if he had.  My son was having a wonderful time and so was I. I didn’t mind letting my guard down. It’s moments like these that create a bond between two people, and these are the very foundations of a great relationship. That’s something I’m very much looking forward to with my children.

You're so like your mummy

You know when you ladies say to a man: “You’re such a typical bloke”... well here’s one right back at’chya.  I’ve learned something this week.  The last five days have confirmed to me what I’ve always suspected; women do not learn how to be both lovely and infuriating at the same time, it’s a ‘gift’ they are born with.  I know this because for the last five days I have spent as much time as humanly possible, looking after my 18 month old daughter while she recovers from her first really horrible cold; and she is a typical girl.

Here are some of the words I could use to describe the last five days; frustrating, exasperating, sweet, infuriating, lovely, draining, and frustrating – did I say that one already.

I have not been able to put her down without her crying.  That’s not the girlie thing, that’s just the: ‘I’m feeling poorly and need comforting thing’, so maybe I can’t use that one. I just needed to say it, to get it off my chest.  No, the girlie thing is the decision making. 

She can’t talk properly yet, so there’s a lot of pointing and saying “Uh”.  I’m getting pretty good at interpreting these cave man forms of communication, so if she wants a drink or something to eat, I’m on it.  The trouble arises when she points to something to entertain herself – pencils, crayons etc.  She looks up at me and issues her royal “Uh” and points to the shelf with the crayons on. I dutifully carry her over praying that she’ll take some crayons and play nicely on the floor for the next two days.  I’ve always been too optimistic; it’s a failing of mine. 

When we get to the shelf she takes the crayons and 3 seconds later decides she doesn’t want them anymore.  I look at her and groan: “You’re so like your mummy.” Instead she wants the Pritt stick.  This is contraband; she knows she can’t have it.  However this was on day three of the five day incarceration and by this time I was beginning to crack – there’s only so much torture a man without SAS training can take.  I check the lid is on tightly and agree to her having it, under my close supervision. 

Three seconds later she changes her mind again and instead points to even more black listed contraband – our collection of small plastic objects.  Experience has taught me, these objects emit a frequency audible only to babies. This translates into: “as soon as you pick me up, put me in your mouth”.

I had to draw the line somewhere.  This didn’t go down well.  This is the bit where I learned beyond all reasonable doubt, she was a typical girl.  She knew if she cranked up the emotional pressure, increased the volume and showed no signs of stopping she’d get what she wanted.  She was right. 

I’m afraid I gave in.  Then something surprising happened, as soon as she got her hands on the prized black listed contraband she stopped crying, her big blue eyes lit up with excitement, and she gave me a big kiss. I looked at her and smiled: “You’re so like your Mummy!”