Wednesday, 15 May 2013
Wednesday, 8 May 2013
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
|That IS what you think it is and no, I didn't make it|
Friday, 26 April 2013
Thursday, 21 March 2013
"Right. I think I get it. It's like a unicycle."
"I'm going to miss my bedroom."
|Send us victorious|
|No you don't.|
"What are they doing?"
The Boy asked.
"They're playing motorbikes. The one at the back is trying to kick-start the other one."
I replied. The Girl mulled this over, nodded and said;
Thursday, 7 March 2013
Sunday, 17 February 2013
The other day I asked the Girl what she wanted to be when she grew up. Usually the answer to this is;
Sometimes with the caveat;
"A cat vet."
However, she seems to have changed her mind because this time she said;
And the Boy served only to compound the issue by saying;
"Like Julia Donaldson?"
Ironically enough a friend of mine recently posted on Twitter that she'd received spam from a doctor that claimed he would help make her a man. That struck me as a rather niche form of clientele to be targeting via spam, but given the Girl's answer, the demand is clearly bigger than I had given credit for.
The moral of these loose ramblings is that asking your kids questions is at best futile;
"What did you do at school today, Boy?"
"What do you want for dinner?"
"What's YOUR NAME?"
Or fraught with misunderstanding;
"School want you to draw something that goes up and down in a playground. What are you going to draw, Girl?"
Clearly a progressive school...
Most often though, you just get an answer that makes you wish you hadn't asked the question in the first place.
"Dad, I need some cream."
"Are you itchy, Girl?"
"Yes. On my noo noo."
Not that I mind, it's all a bit of a cabaret. Especially when you compare it to the Boy dancing naked on the landing, spanking his bare arse and singing "Should I stay or should I go" by the Clash. Or shooting my glasses off my face with a Nerf gun from the other side of the house. Three times in a row.
Monday, 11 February 2013
|John Shaft, according to the Boy|
|Seems unlikely to take off as the new standard in funerals|
|My hair isn't as neat as this though|
Saturday, 29 December 2012
Wednesday, 19 December 2012
For Christ's sake.
Have a very merry Christmas, people. Love from Me, The Wife, Boy and Girl.
Wednesday, 28 November 2012
The Boy came round in the end, as he always does (sometimes with a judicious application of behavioral modification technique I like to call "shouting incoherently"). He claimed the other day that he wanted to be more like me, which led to the Wife's eyebrows raising at such an alarming rate they nearly came clear off her head. Yesterday he started his "being like dad" lifestyle choice by telling me off.
"Come upstairs, it's bathtime!"
"A-HEM! What about the ice cream?"
"What about it?"
"You haven't put it away. Don't you think you should?"
"I'll do it later, Boy."
"No... you'll do it now."
I'll give him this, it worked. I stomped down the stairs like a stroppy teenager, put the ice cream back in the freezer and returned with the words;
"THERE! Happy now?"
By this evening - by virtue of having the attention span of a stobe-lit goldfish - I'd forgotten about his new plan. After our little argument about him treating me like a slave this afternoon he became more contrite, and when it got to bed time he asked me very politely.
"Could I have a poo before bed?"
"Of course, Boy. You don't have to ask."
"I'll do it as fast as I can. I just need to get it out of me."
"That's lovely. Go to the loo then."
He duly did so. I went to help the Girl clean her teeth because she'd "forgotten how to" again and as I did so I became aware of this noise coming from the toilet;
"Why are you making that noise?"
"You always make this noise in here."
"Stop trying to be like me. I mean it."
"Ahhhh... that's better...."
"Boy, stop giving me a running commentary about your toilet antics."
"STOP BEING LIKE ME OR I'LL FLUSH YOU DOWN THE TOILET!!"
Monday, 12 November 2012
Wednesday, 31 October 2012
Don't get me wrong, any excuse to dress like I used to in my gothic youth should be a good thing, and I love horror films. But let's be honest Hallowe'en is essentially a one night amnesty on doorstep robberies. It's as if just because it's All Hallows' Eve teenagers are allowed to demand money for menaces by virtue of standing on your doorstep wearing a sullen expression and a bin bag. The only time I've enjoyed Hallowe'en was the year I took to answering the front door with a baseball bat and; "TRICK, YOU BASTARDS!"
So when I got home and the Wife said;
"Get the Kids into their costumes. We're going trick or treating."
I was annoyed. We don't live in America, I'm not smuggling E.T. out of my bedroom, and jacking the Kids up on Haribo for the next week did not appeal at all. So I told the Wife who's boss by saying;
Now it strikes me that if you're going to go trick or treating you should take things seriously and make an effort with your outfit. The Boy agreed with me and took careful stock of his dressing up outfits before choosing a skeleton (not skellington, I hasten to add) costume.
The Girl initially wanted to be a Pirate Cat. This, I explained to her, was not really what Hallowe'en was all about. in a breakthrough moment, for once she took some advice rather than simply yelling; "No."
Then she ignored my advice and dressed up as Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. With fairy wings. And an axe.
Fortunately for me the Wife's idea of trick or treating was to drive over to friends and family's houses. A great idea because you avoid knocking on the door of the crazy cat lady up the road who hasn't got any sweets but has some "brown cat eggs" she insists you take. So we went over to see Grandma. Who wasn't in.
The four of us sat in the car, waiting for Grandma to turn up, in the pitch dark, listening to the wind. The Girl's wind. Bless her she'd been ill the night before and still wasn't herself. Eventually Grandma turned up from work, looking slightly flustered. Sportingly we let her go inside before we walked up to the front door and bellowed "Trick or treat!"
Sadly, the gusto with which the Girl yelled proved a bit much for her fragile digestive system, and there was a very suspect bubbling noise and a look of surprise that suggested something untoward had happened.
I'll admit, as a trick on Hallowe'en, shitting yourself it pretty radical. Meanwhile Grandma exercised her right to make a slightly weird situation very weird indeed.
She said, which made both Kids turn to look at the Wife and I with an anxious look that said; "We were promised sweets!"
"I haven't got any sweets. Why don't you take me to the local shop and I'll buy you some."
This was a rather strange thing to say since, as the Wife pointed out;
"You work in the local shop. And you've just finished work."
So, just another normal day with the Family...
Sunday, 14 October 2012
Said the Boy the other night as he was cleaning his teeth for bed.
"What age are you when you die?"
Now that's not a question you want to have to answer when you've got to get the Kids into bed before you have a pizza. Still, I believe in answering most of the Boy's questions.
"Well, most people die in their seventies and eighties. Although some people die much younger, and some people live to be over a hundred. And then they get a telegram from the Queen."
"Which kills them off."
The Boy hasn't asked many questions about this recently. The Girl however is still very much in the "Your Dads dead, isn't he dad?" phase. Which can be a bit brutal in it's matter-of-factness. So, to give the Girl some kind of background we took her and the Boy to my Father's grave this weekend. Not the whole weekend, mind. We did other things.
I hadn't been there for about four years, I'm not mad keen on revisiting my Father's grave site, but the Kids set about it like we were going to Centre Parcs for the day. This was fine save for the fact that they decided to pretend to be dogs for the first ten minutes kind of clashed with the atmosphere. A bit.
Still, my Ma and I introduced them to my Father's headstone, with the Boy looking less baffled than I would have expected him to. They both said hello, it was nice. Weird, but nice.
Then we took a stroll around the rest of the graveyard, while the Boy and Girl asked me a lot of questions about death. Eventually, we got back to the car, got in and as I was about to pull out of the graveyard the Girl said;
"I've got a shell!"
And then I got a sinking feeling.
"Where did you get it from?"
"One of those."
And she pointed to a grave. And she couldn't remember which one. And she threw a wobbler when I said we had to take it back.
I mean, my Kids are many things, but I hadn't expected them to turn into grave robbers.
When we got back to my Mum's place we found two of her neighbours talking. It transpired that someone in the street they had known since I was seven had died. We made the right kind of sympathetic noises, and then the Boy said;
"We've just been to the graveyard! Which hole was he in?"
And then the Girl said;
"I've got a shell! I got -mumph!"
As I put my hand over her mouth.
Still all this chaos and mayhem has made me realise something.
I really miss my Dad.
Friday, 12 October 2012
"If everyone in the world was in one place..."
"Would they be able to lift dad up?"
Now that's just plain rude. I've been carrying a bit of holiday weight, it's true. And admittedly that holiday was in 1996. And I have been referred to as a "chubby c***" by two separate people who'd never met before. But...
Aw, the hell with it. The Kid has got a point. Although I do feel that this contempt may have been caused by me. The day before we'd been in the car and, for want of anything sensible to say I asked him;
"If you were a building, Boy, what building would you be?"
He thought about it for a long moment and came up with what he clearly thought was a suitable answer.
"A hotel. So lots of people could live inside me. And then I could charge them money."
"Wouldn't it be better to be a bank?"
"Because then you'd have billions of pounds!"
"But I want people in me."
"Don't say that."
And then there was an awkward silence. After a few minutes he said.
"Dad. Can I say something to you?"
"I'm not talking to you."
And to prove it, he carried on talking to me about how he wasn't talking to me until I didn't want him to talk to me any more. Eventually, distracted by a passing car he suddenly said;
"I know what kind of car we drive."
I replied, glad we'd changed the subject. And as sure as eggs is unfertilised chicken ovum, he instantly made me regret it.
"Yeah. It's a Shitroen."
Girl: "What's a Shitroen?
Fortunately, the next day I was removed from the simmering anger of the Boy by the virtue of taking my Ma to the hospital. It was nothing serious, just a check up with her neurologist. I'm quite glad it was nothing serious because getting to the hospital, going to the appointment and getting back home took a total of nine hours all told. This was partly because I had an off-peak train ticket and wasn't about to pay an extra five quid to come home straight after the appointment. So, we sat in a coffee shop and talked for two hours. Weirdly we got to talking about my inability to attract women in my youth, which led to this beautiful moment between a mother and son.
"I spent three days in Amsterdam, everyone else had a great time and the only person I pulled was a mental German."
I mean, seriously. I'm married. I've got two Kids. When are my parents going to believe I'm not gay?
When I got back home I assumed (wrongly) that the Boy had forgiven me. Turns out, he hadn't.
"Boy, how about I teach you how to tell the time?"
"I'm trying to lick my foot at the moment."
"Wh-? Just... come here. Look at the clock."
"So when the big hand is pointing at twelve and the little hand is pointing at six, what's the time?"
I gave up at that point. The Boy, however did not give up. At the end of the week, as I picked him up from school he said;
"We're going to make you do lots of exercise when you get home, dad."
"You don't get enough exercise."
"What? I cycle to work! I do about forty miles a week!"
"Yeah, but you haven't changed. You still look like that."
*Singing* "Fatman! Fatman!"
Friday, 28 September 2012
|I luuuuuuurve the Spice Girls|
Thursday, 20 September 2012
Tuesday, 11 September 2012
- it would be cool in there
- they are called La Grotte Clamouse - which makes me laugh (it sounds like someone crapped on your dessert)
|Dear god, no.|
P.S. I mentioned the murder thing, didn't I? Funny thing - we were in the South of France, four people got murdered in the Alps and I got bombarded by people asking "Was it near you?" I've come to the conclusion people were rather hoping I'd been shot. Which is just plain mean, you rotters.