Best Laid Plans

The Wife and I are currently trying some behaviour modification on the Kids. The idea is to stop the Boy from moaning when we tell him to do his homework, and for the Girl to stop going f**king bonkers the second someone speaks to her, looks at her, doesn't look at her, tells her to do something, has ears she doesn't like, breathes after eleven o'clock or isn't dead. This might sound a bit... Clockwork Orange but it's nothing so sinister.

The Girl

We've created sticker charts. They get a sticker for every day they don't moan or throw a tantrum. When they get thirty stickers, the Boy will get a Mandalorian Battle Set and the Girl will get her knife collection back. I mean, er... we'll buy her a toy horse.

This has been fifty percent successful thus far. By which I mean, the Boy gets it and behaves, and the Girl... Well... the flaw in our plan is this - if she doesn't get a sticker because she's thrown a tantrum... she throws a tantrum.

Today I had to take the Boy swimming. I've mentioned his swimming lessons before and they haven't got any less aggravating. Since the Wife was going to work, I had to take the Girl with us. So, on returning home from work I checked how the Girl's mood had been with the Wife. She rolled her eyes, and told me a horror story that involved her Pre-School teachers having to team up to talk her into going into school. And then she wet herself. Twice. So, I went off to talk to the Girl, who curled up in a ball and started shouting "No" at me - which meant I had to come up with a plan to stop her going ape sh*t at the swimming lesson. It's something I have nightmares about - lots of people, slippery floors, a large quantity of water and an exploding child.

Therefore I came up with a plan. I grabbed the Girl's headphones and brought them along. The Boy got changed in the usual fashion.

"Get undressed."

*Blank look*

*Sigh* "Take your top off."

*Takes top off*

"Carry on."

*Blank look*

"Take your shorts off."

*Takes shorts off*

"And the rest."

*Blank look*

"TAKE YOUR PANTS OFF!"

This never gets dull. 

Once the Boy jumped in the water, I sat down, plugged the headphones into my phone and started searching for Spice Girls videos for the Girl to watch. The Girl loves the Spice Girls.

This seemed to work. The only small problem is that, like all small children listening to headphones,  she didn't understand that she DIDN'T HAVE TO YELL EVERY TIME SHE SPOKE.

"I LOVE THE SPICE GIRLS!"

I nodded, and after making sure she was settled down, watched the Boy and his friend spend the next ten minutes trying to drown each other. It was the first time I'd got to actually watch the Boy swim. Ordinarily I have to entertain a bored Girl. This time there was only the odd

"DAD. IT'S STOPPED."

"Right-o, watch this one."

I was quite impressed with the Boy's swimming. His back stroke was very fast and the only-

"DAD! FAIRIES!"

"Yeah. Great."

-thing slowing him down was his ears - which were sticking out like wing nuts because of his goggles. Would have been a bit nicer if he'd spent less time sneezing in the water on purpose, but you can't have everything. 

"LOOK AT HER BOOBIES! SHE'S GOT MASSIVE BOOBIES!"

In her defence, she was looking at Geri Halliwell, who did have massive boobies in the video. It did, however, look like she was pointing at one of the women teaching the swimming lesson. Who also had massive boobies.

Fortunately for me, the swimming teacher didn't hear, only the people sitting either side of me did. One found it hilarious. The other less so, and looked at me like I'd just urinated in her pocket. As if I'd said it.

Once we got home I took the phone off her, told her she'd been a good girl and just for good measure, she threw another tantrum. 

I'm now considering this;

Dumb and Dumbererer

Earlier today I was going through my normal routine of preparing the Kids dinner whilst simultaneously teaching the Boy to write and fending off the Girl whilst she attacked me with a toy sword. This type of situation has become deeply ingrained my daily routine, meaning that should I ever be jumped by ninjas in the kitchen I feel I could adequately pacify them and teach them how to do joined up writing. It's a niche skill, I grant you, but it's going on the CV nonetheless.

To add to the never-ending fun-filled, aneurysm-fest that is my early evening, whilst I was doing this the telephone rang. My land line almost never rings, so I ran to the receiver scattering pasta, pencils and children in my wake. When I answered it I heard the phrase that turns my blood to steam.

"Hello, are you the homeowner?"

Now, I've done all those cold call tricks you've read about in the past. I've convinced them to send someone out to my second floor flat to measure up for a conservatory, I've pretended I was at a crime scene, pretended to be dead... all of that. For a while I took to answering the phone with the words "Surveillance Unit" but that just freaked my Mum out. And yes, I've joined the Telephone Preference Service, but they still get through. I reserve a particular hatred for cold calling. I know they're just trying to earn a living, but so are arms dealers and whaling fleets. Plus, I did cold calling for two whole days in my late teens. I worked out that by the time I quit I'd made 170 phone calls and 96 of those had led to my heritage being questioned. By the end of it, I was pretty much agreeing with the rather pointed comments of the poor sods I was calling. In fact it was the only job I've ever had where the Manager suggested I should amphetamines so I would speak faster and get through more calls (true story, folks). So, there you go - I'm allowed to hate them.

Sadly, I'm rather too polite for my own good. I often apologise when people tread on my feet, so I couldn't interrupt as the caller went through the first part of their script.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to sell you anything. We were wondering..."

It was at this point I had a microcosm and handed the phone to the Boy.

"It's for you."

He looked puzzled for a moment but took the receiver and put it to his ear.

"Hello... Yes... Yes..." *Pause* "I've got a wet sock because the Girl dropped her cup on the floor and I trod in it and fell on my bum. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.... I NEED A POO!"

He ran up the stairs, shoving the phone at me as he went past. Funnily enough, there was no one on the other end.

Much as I moan about the Kids, I do love them. Especially when they get rid of cold callers. Even when they throw tantrums they can be quite adorable.

"Dad, the Girl says this is her book, but it's my book."

*Sigh* "Right."

"It's NOT! It's my book!"

"It's not her book! She's lying!"

"I am NOT! I'm SITTING!"

The Boy thought this was hilarious. Right up until the Girl felled him with an uppercut. She doesn't do being laughed at.

Yes, for all the frustrations, my Kids are lovely. My Kids. Other people's Kids, now they're a pain in the arse.

Two doors down there are a family with two young boys. The combined brain power of these two boys is approximately the same as a boiled egg. One of them, the smaller one, spends all day stopping traffic by cycling out into the road in front of cars, punctuating the air with the screaming of tyres and shouting of words that rhyme with "truck" and "schmit". The other one likes to cycle up and down driveways. My driveway. Often when my car is on it. His other hobby is gawping. A few weeks back the Wife and I were loading up the boot of the car to go camping, and the mindless little oaf not only stared at us like the kid in the Deliverance, he actually stood at the boot of the car gawping into it. After a while, negotiating around the bovine-faced, gormless fruit of someone else's loins wears a bit thin. I was quite proud it took more than thirty seconds to move from "Excuse me" to "EXCUSE me" to "Will you just piss off!"

Let me make this clear, these children don't have special educational needs, they're just plain dumb. A couple of nights ago I could hear them playing a game in their back garden. I'm not sure what the rules were, but it involved a lot of counting, over and over, at very high volume.

"One, two, three, four, six, seven. One, two, three, four, six, seven."

I managed ten minutes whilst watering the garden before I started yelling;

"FIVE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, FIVE!"

And who gets the reputation for being weird? Me. That's who.

I haven't always been this patient and forgiving. Shortly after my father died I remember taking my Ma shopping. As we were walking down the stairs from the car park a rotund creature with a ruddy complexion walked into me (I say he walked into me, seeing him coming I tried to get out of his way and somehow he still managed to get me). He looked up at me with the sort of expression you might expect see on a snail, and walked straight into me again. And so I regaled him with;

"Fat and stupid's no way to go through life, kid."

This appeared to have no affect on his demeanour, which was pretty much identical to a blank sheet of A4. Naturally, my Ma gave me a proper telling off. And then started laughing.

I feel bad for being so annoyed by these kids, I do. The worst these kids are guilty of is that they haven't got any moxie. They are very irritating - they're like dealing with a cat that constantly winds through your feet as you walk down the stairs. Actually, scratch that. When I was a teenager a friend of mine had a Labrador, very cheerful, very friendly, dumb as a stone. It had a habit of following me around everywhere, even to the point that when I went to the loo it was lie against the door waiting for me to come out. Unfortunately it wasn't equipped with the brains to get up when I tried to open the door, and since it weighed a metric ton, it was almost impossible to get back out of the loo. Eventually I would be forced to shoulder barge the door, squeeze my arm and head through and shove the door back and forth, all the while with the Labrador looking at me with an expression that simultaneously said; "Why are you doing this to me? I love you!" and "Derrrrrrrrrrrr...."

They're like that. Sorry about the long metaphor. Anyway, my point is, I have had to battle to become the (by comparison) tolerant person I am today. My worst moment of intolerance was when I nearly ran over girl on a pedestrian crossing. Now, that sounds worse than it was, so let me explain.

I was driving merrily along on my way back from work many moons ago and approaching the aforementioned pedestrian crossing. On the pavement were a group of girls sashaying along, as I was about twenty feet from the crossing one of the girls (who resembled my friend's Labrador in both the looks and weight departments) looked at me and very deliberately stepped out in front of me. I pretty much had an MI trying to stop the car, which I did, about a foot away from her. She then turned to her friends and said in the sort of self-righteous, haughty manner only certain ten year old girls can manage;

"See, they have to stop for me."

Before I replied to this I had to wind the window down, which only slightly took the sting out of the  tail when I leaned out and yelled;

"The reason I stopped is because you're so fat you'd write the f**king car off!"

And at that point she burst into tears and ran away. Smooth moves, on my part, I'm sure you'll agree.

This is why I try harder than ever to deal with the sometimes unbelievably vacuous children I meet when I take the Kids to the park. In fact these days I occasionally find myself feeling quite grateful to them. Because every time the Girl puts her shoes on the wrong feet (there's a 50:50 chance and somehow she gets it wrong EVERYTIME) I think; at least she's never picked up a dog turd and tried to eat it.

I've seen that done before.

The Great British Camping Trip

This is a story about rain.

Being collectively tighter than a duck's arse, the Wife and I have long been associated with going on camping holidays. The Wife will comment that she loves the taste of camping tea, and that the food always tastes better but in truth we do it because we're skint. Otherwise we'd be in five star hotels, drinking Chateau Le Pin and eating grapes off each other. Or in my case, peanuts. I don't like grapes.

So we go camping A LOT, and consequently have a tent approximately the size of Madison Square Garden. Admittedly I've never been to Madison Square Garden, but I did see it in the film Highlander and it seemed quite big.

In spite of what I'm about to say, I love camping. However the Kids love camping. It's a "going back to nature" thing. As in - not washing and acting like animals. So last week we shoved every blanket we owned into the car, hitched up the roofbox and headed to the New Forest.

Now... I was a bit worried about the weather. For the previous week I'd been looking on every weather website I could find, unable find a forecast that I liked. The best of them said; "Torrential downpours, temperatures just above freezing, outbreaks of hypothermia, occasional shark attacks." But based on the fact that a) we couldn't get our money back and b) neither of us wanted to deal with the Girl's reaction to a cancelled holiday (BOOM!), we went.

We pitched up in the early afternoon with the sun shining, managed to get the tent up without divorce being mentioned, chatted amiably with the friends that were with us. As ever in my life, things started swimmingly, before going a bit wrong.

Going camping is not the most relaxing of holidays. For a start it's the only sort of holiday where you have to build your accommodation on arrival. Also, the Kids are generally so excited that they don't manage to fall asleep until several hours after their bed time. When they do go to sleep it's not long before someone shouts "I NEED A POO!"  forcing you to negotiate a number of zips, hurdles, tent pegs and guy ropes in the pitch black, trudging across to a hole in the ground someone has creatively called a toilet and watching the apple of your eye crap on a hedgehog (true story). In fact, most camping holidays I've been on have been dominated by the logistics of having a crap. Hence I spend a lot of time drunk.

Then there are the camping beds. It takes a particular person to go into the design of camping beds. The sort of person that wanted to go into dentistry or vivisection but thought they were a bit "soft." 

• Example 1; the inflatable mattress that you spend three hours inflating on arrival. Net result; waking up in the early hours to discover it has a puncture and you're lying on the freezing ground with paralysing backache

• Example 2; the child's "Readybed" which consists of an inflatable mattress and zip-on sleeping bag. Net result, you're awoken in the early hours because the Boy has flipped over and capsized for the fourteenth time in the night and is being suffocated by the mattress

• Example 3; self inflating mattresses which, for reasons best known to the freak that designed it, are frictionless. Net result; you wake up on the other side of the tent. Or someone else's tent

This means you spend the holiday constantly exhausted and paranoid about your next bowel movement. Or at least I do.

Day two arrived and brought with it the sort of weather you can only expect when you're on a camping holiday in England and GOD HATES YOU. The rain was falling like Facebook shares (topical!) and bouncing off the ground. And just to compound matters, halfway through the day there were gale force winds. So we went off to the National Motor Museum which was brilliant for me because I love cars.

On entering the dimly lit hanger full of cars the Boy suddenly excitedly yelled

"Look! Shaka laka boom boom!"

"That's Chitty Chitty Bang Bang."

Naturally being a car enthusiast I took to explaining to the Boy the history behind the cars such as Bluebird, or Graham Hill's 1967 Lotus formula 1 car. The Boy responded to this with

"Ha ha, that car looks like an orange!"

Or, when I was explaining how the internal combustion engine worked yelling

"Suck! Bang! Blow! Squeeze!"

"It's 'suck, squeeze, bang, blow' and for Chrissake's stop yelling that!"

We also went on the monorail - except the Girl who climbed the two story building to board it, decided it looked like a roller coaster and galactically shat herself. It was a grand day out. Save for the fact that as the day went on the rain got harder and the wind picked up. Later we got back to the camp site to discover the awning for our tent had been rescued from inside our tent by our friends. And then they went to the pub and all their tents fell over. I rushed around, re-constructing everyone's tents before assisting a French couple who's tent had actually turned into a hot air balloon. Much fun was had as their tent canopy dragged us face down around the field. Oh how we laughed and swore. Fortunately, our tent stayed up, and when our friends had decided (wisely, since their tents had holes or bits missing) to go home, we decided to brave the night. I'm pretty convinced the people in the Titanic's lifeboats had a better night's sleep than we did that night. It sounded like an Apollo mission was launching in our tent.

However I'm pleased to say that the next day the weather improved and we got to spend two days wandering around the New Forest, communing with nature and seeing thousands of wild ponies.

I hate ponies.

Full Circle

When I was about seven my Dad gave me a copy of Ray Bradbury's "Dandelion Wine" to read, and I just devoured it. Before that I'd read nothing but the Famous Five and thought the world pretty much revolved around Dick and Fanny. But reading "Dandelion Wine" was like having someone draw back the curtain on the world. I still love that book now.

Since then I've loved to read. I don't always read a lot, I don't always read quickly, but I always read. That was what made me want to go into teaching when I was younger and in 1992 I went to university to train to be a teacher.

I will admit I went into this with eyes blinded by visions of taking the kids on "learning journeys", and watching their faces light up as they learned to read. What actually happened was they ignored me, or told me to me to stick my f***ing book up my f***ing arse. On one occasion, I was stabbed in the leg with a pair of plastic scissors. I still have the scar.

The culmination of my two years teacher training was when the parent of one of the kids in my class came in to complain that I'd told his son to ask him for help with his homework. His argument, made at high volume with liberal dose of swearing, was that I was getting paid to teach his son, not him. Dealing with the human equivalent of an unflushed toilet is not my strong suit, and I left teaching not long after this and took a job standing in a field for the next eight years (not an exaggeration).

The experience also put me off having children, being near children and pretty much everything to do with children other than avoiding them. It took some time to come round to the idea of having kids. Even when I had the Kids I wasn't always convinced. Once we went out for a meal at a well known Italian-American restaurant and the Kids both decided they needed the toilet. Since I had lost the battle to sit furthest away from the toilet, I got to take them. We went to the disabled loo because dealing with two frantic children full of wee in a cramped space isn't particularly relaxing. Everything went fairly swimmingly right up until I made the mistake of using the loo myself and - at the moment I was at my most vulnerable - the Boy threw the door wide open and wandered back out into the restaurant leaving me on display like a Tracey Emin installation.

But when the Girl tells me

"Grandma got eaten by a bat!"

Or the Boy draws me a picture of an alien that looks suspiciously like a penis, well I can't help but love them. In fact I can't understand those parents that don't want to spend their time with their kids.

And now I get to see the Boy learning to read - and I don't think there has been any greater joy in my life. As we were reading a book tonight I introduced him to a new word.

"Weary. It means tired."

*Gasp* "Cool! That's a 'wow word'! Can you write it down and I'll take it into school? I'll get the pen and paper!"

As he ran out of the room he said

"Query."

"Actually, it was 'weary.' A 'query' means something else. A query is like a question."

*VERY excited* "That's another wow word!"

At this point I clapped my hands on my cheeks in mock surprise and (unwisely) said

"I know! Joy-gasm!"

You can probably guess the next bit. Needless to say I'm going to have some explaining to do next parent's evening.

The Biz vs The Nuge*

"The trouble with being vegetarian is that you can only eat vegetables."

The Wife rather astutely noted this afternoon. I should point out that she was joking. But the Boy gave her a long, hard look as if to say;

"You're onto something there, mum."

I should also add that we're not vegetarians. Well, we are sort of. Right up until someone offers to cook a Sunday roast. The Boy's musing may have been in part due to his lunch at his my Ma's today. Ma is a creature of habit and has given them. Chicken for dinner since the Boy was weaned. But in the spirit of change today she cooked lamb kebabs for them. As always happens when we cook the Kids something new there was a frisson of anticipation as they approached the table and peered at their plates. Normally you get

"What's that?"

Not sneering, more enquiring. How interesting. Something on my plate I hadn't expected. I shall enquire what it is, and if the answer isn't "chocolate" I shall reject it out of hand, throw myself on the floor and cry until I have snot in my hair.

Bizarrely, this didn't occur. Instead this did.

"Ooh! Look, Girl! Meat lollies!"

"Lollies? I LOVE LOLLIES!"

And thus they both ate not just the kebabs, but all of their dinner. Admittedly the Boy insisted eating his peas with the kebab stick which was like watching glaciation, but still.

They've both been quite philosophical over the weekend. Yesterday we took the Kids to a park so they could meet the kids of the Wife's friends (you might want to read that sentence a couple more times. I've written it twelve different ways and still can't get it to make sense...) This must have been a bit weird for the Wife, seeing all those people you used to sit outside the off-license (for my American chums - Liquor Store) smoking Silk Cut and trying not to go green. And now all with kids, or bumps. When this has happened to me it always makes me feel even more estranged from my old friends. Instead of talking about old times I find myself talking solely about my Kids. The only other time I do this is with total strangers at the school gates. I was thinking about this in the car on the way down when the Boy shook me from my reverie.

"Why do we wear seatbelts?"

Before either of us could answer the Girl jumped with her pearls of wisdom.

"You need to wear a seatbelt if; you're sitting down, or standing up, or of it's raining, or if it's sunny, or if you've blown off..."

She does do some powerful farts, so she's talking sense.

This is all part of the Girl's maternal instinct. She's forever telling the Cat that "It's all right. Don't worry." Which rather misses the point that it's her, and more precisely what she did to him during the "spoon incident" that's making him edgy. Today she was playing with her baby doll which she's inspiringly called "baby" and giving it/her/him cuddles and kisses. Then she threw it on the floor and stamped on its head. Right up until the premeditated murder it was a scene of maternal bliss. Oh, and then she did a magic trick and made herself disappear. Here's a photo to prove it.

If you look carefully you can just about see her

* This has nothing to do with the blog, I've just been listening to Beastie Boys recently.

Gene Genie

Nothing reminds me why my Kids are the way they are than a trip to my mother's house, and today was no different. A case in point

"Got any holidays planned?"

"Yeah, we're going to Legoland."

"Oh. With the Kids?"

"No mum, with a serial killer."

And then I get that look that tells me I'm being rude, and that it wasn't a stupid question. Certainly no more stupid than

"What does your friend Paul do for a living?"

"He's a wind surfing instructor."

"Can he wind surf?"

Now, I shouldn't be telling you this because my Ma reads this blog and the next time I go over to her house (claiming to want to see her but really because she's just bought and iPad) she'll chase me round the kitchen with a broom handle. But the fact of it is that she, as well as all the sundry other members of our family, are to blame for the way my Kids are. Except me. I'm blameless.

Not that my Ma is stupid, far from it. She's er... not sixty anymore... and yet she can use predictive text, she's on Facebook, she's just bought and iPad (I know I've mentioned that, but I'm a bit fixated) and although she says "uploading" when she means "downloading" (which DRIVES ME INSANE) she's very modern and with it. More than me. I use phrases like "with it." Plus, despite coming across as a bit timid, she's rather brave. After all, she moved to the UK when it still had an empire and most people in this country thought bananas were exotic. That doesn't stop her from being crazier than a shit  house rat. Although she can text rather well, this is the kind of text message I get from her

Am I texting in a Spanish accent?

She can be a bit overly concerned by her accent, having been regularly asked if she's German, Portugese, Nigerian (?), French, and - my favourite - Irish. This was by an Irish woman. 

"Ah, you're from Ireland! What part of Ireland are you from, love?"

"Barcelona."

Classic.

But I kind of understand. After all, I am not called David because of her accent. I should preface this story with the fact that the Spanish pronounce "V" the way English speakers pronounce "B". So the story goes she was in the ambulance in labour with me when the paramedic decided to strike up a conversation.

"So have you got a name for the baby?"

"If its a girl, I'll call her Maria. If its a boy I'll call him Dabid."

"Dabid?"

"No... Dabid."

"Is that Spanish?"

"No. Dabid. DA-BID. Like Dabe."

"Dabe?"

"I've changed my mind. I'll call him Boy."

And my Ma is just the tip of the iceberg. The Kid's maternal Grandmother lists "collecting bricks" amongst her hobbies.

So you see, the Kids were screwed from the start. This is why today, when asked who her favourite man was the Girl said

"Boy."

"Oh. Well who's your favourite Daddy?"

"Auntie Jason."

And the Boy steals my iPod and takes videos like this

And to all you neigh sayers (excluding horses, who can't help it) the Boy did take this video. If I'm lying you can keep him. In fact, you can keep him if I'm telling the truth. He keeps blowing up the cat.

Shouting Soup

About a month ago we bought the Boy a high sleeper bed which is essentially the top part of a bunk bed with a desk underneath. As with all things we've bought for the Kids, like drum kits and foam swords, this hasn't been without repercussions. Such as being woken up at three in the morning by the Boy plaintively yelling

"Help! I need a wee and I can't get down!"

Or when he fell asleep in the car and I had to try to throw him into a bed level with the top of my head.

However, Kids have a way of finding new and interesting ways of making you regret what seemed like a good idea at the time. And so it was last night that I found myself walking into his bedroom at ten at night because he was calling me. As I walked over to the side of his bed I noticed the unmistakeable smell of vomit.

Crap.

"Have you been sick, Boy?"

"Yes."

He said, cheerfully. The Boy has always been an enthusiastic vomiter.

"Ah. Were you sick on your bed?"

"No."

This was when I realised my feet were wet. On switching on the light I discovered exactly what happens when a small boy vomits from a height of six foot onto a wooden floor. It was EVERYWHERE. It covered almost his entire bedroom floor, his bookshelf, desk, toys, the chest of drawers on the other side of the room and, most importantly, me.

"Wow! Look at all that sick, dad! I must be empty!"

Even when I'm on the other side of the house I still get covered in sick.

It took me an hour and a half to clean up. I even had to shower his toys. And all the time I was doing this the Boy regaled me with his pearls of wisdom

"When I was at Grandma's I felt sick but I wasn't sick but then I came home and went to bed and I was sick."

"Yeah, I know."

"Yeah. Cos there's some on your shoulder."

Eventually it all got cleared up, the Boy lay down, said goodnight and started snoring. I have to hand it to him, he always deals with these things really well.

When I got home from work today I found the Girl going a light shade of green and sure enough she blew her groceries all over me within the hour. Seriously, it's ALWAYS me. Like the Boy the Girl is a real solder when she's ill, and the second time she was sick she cleared her throat, had a drink of water and asked me why I didn't wear toenail varnish.

Bless 'em!

A Long Time Ago, In a Galaxy Far, Far Away

When I was about five years old my dad took me to see Star Wars and from that moment on I was just crazy about science-fiction. Admittedly this made me about as attractive as chlamydia during my teens (compounded by having braces, wearing NHS spectacles and then - just because I fancied really screwing up my chances with girls - I became a goth). But it also made me unswervingly optimistic that every new technological advance would improve the world beyond all measure. As I've got older and more jaded I've come to believe that technology largely revolves around filling the following needs;

1. The need to find new and interesting ways to kill each other
2. The need to find quicker ways of accessing hardcore pornography

And thus, the internet was born. Lets face it, for your average 15 year old boy the internet is the equivalent of that burnt out car on the waste land near your house where someone dumped their collection of Swedish pornography. I think this is a bit of a sad thing, partly because of the fun I had stashing porn mags in every drawer in every room of my mate's house. His mum grounded him for about a year. And she sent him to counselling. It was brilliant.

But I mainly think its sad because when I was a Boy, the future seemed so exciting. Now, when I look at my mobile phone, or ipod, or laptop or any other the other gadgets around my house it makes me think how ordinary the future has become. The Boy certainly doesn't have the same amazement with technology as me. When I was a kid colour telly seemed like witchcraft. When I recently got a Google Android phone I ran over to him practically frothing at the mouth yelling;

"Look Boy! I've got the telly ON MY PHONE!!"

*Yawn* "So?"

Over the weekend I tried to introduce the "wow" factor to him by downloading a lightsabre app on my phone. He had great fun swinging it around and I have to say it did work for a couple of minutes right up until he accidentally flung it across the room and hit the Girl in the head. It turned out he was less impressed with the app and more impressed by the impact the phone had made on his sister. The Girl quite liked it. She kept chopping her nan's head off with it. I took it off her in the end because she wasn't playing with it properly. She kept saying

"Shoot! Shoot!"

And she got upset when I shouted in her face that it wasn't a bloody gun it was a bloody lightsabre.

"You're using it wrong! Stop saying shoot! It goes like this; wommmm... wommmm."

"Dad, why are you making the noise? It already makes the noise."

"Shut up, Boy."

Quite frankly, they ruined it for me.

Maybe I feel sad because the Kids ability to use modern technology makes me feel old. I'm forever finding Boy playing with my ipod, or on Backyard Monsters on the Wife's Facebook profile (and frankly, the only reason she hasn't been fraped is because he can't spell yet). Neither of my Kids understand the concept that television isn't all on demand. Television! On demand! I mean, when I was a kid that was second on the wish list, after being able to shoot lightning out of your hands.

"Why can't I watch Mike the Knight?"

"It's not on."

"Make it come on!"

"I can't. When I was a kid..."

And they give you that look that says they're going to humour you. I love being humoured by small children, it really makes me feel like I'm at the top of the evolutionary tree. Even when I do something as simple as switching on the telly the Boy will watch me staring blankly at the eight thousand buttons on the remote control before sighing and saying

"Dad, give me the remote.I haven't got all day."

HE'S. FIVE. YEARS. OLD.

My dad used to joke that he had to get me to programme the video for him. Now we don't even have a video any more. Partly because they don't make them any more, and partly because the Boy kept posting jam sandwiches into ours.

Extracurricular

We have enrolled the Boy in football lessons at his school. To clarify for my American readers, when I say football I mean what you call soccer. If I refer to what you call football I normally say "The sport bit between the two hour Pepsi ad." It's not catchy, but it is accurate.

The only downside with the Boy playing football is that because he goes to a faith school everyone has to go in goal. Because Jesus saves you see.

Sorry about that. Won't happen again.

Today I popped along to watch him, which was a bit of a mistake. After only a few minutes it was apparent that he was pretty much oblivious to the game. Not that he was alone in this. Three or four kids were taking it very seriously. However the rest were either running in circles, crying or peeing in the bushes. The Boy seemed completely unaware that the ball had any significance to the match. Certainly he never tried to kick it. In fact he didn't even look at it. To the Boy the game revolved around adjusting his tabard, as if it was an uncomfortable bra or a nice little off the shoulder number. Once, in a moment of inspiration, he laid down across the goal mouth. Unorthodox defending, but it worked because it stopped a goal. Later I asked him if he'd done that because he was in defence.

"No. I was a bit tired."

This despite the fact that he ran once during the entire match. And that was to the toilet. Still, he enjoyed himself and cheered every time a goal was scored.

"Goal! "

"You're not supposed to cheer THEIR goals! "

I hid myself away whilst he was playing, so he would stay focused (some chance).  When the mayhem ended I stepped out from behind a tree and said hello.

"Mum! "

"Christ.  I'm DAD. "

"Did you see me play? I scored a hundred goals. "

Whilst this statement wasn't that amusing in itself, the look on the face of his team mate who had been taking it all very seriously was, to put it mildly, hilarious.

Earlier that morning the Wife and I had taken the Girl to gymnastics. I recommend watching a toddler's gymnastics class because I think it's the closest you'll get to experiencing the end of the world.  They act like I expect people to act when they've been told that an asteroid will hit the Earth. Lots of running and screaming, a bit of vomiting, crying, biting - even the odd stolen kiss or hug. It is the purest form of chaos, with a few ruddy faced women of a certain age trying - and utterly failing - to keep order. Essentially its like descending into madness - particularly when any queuing is involved. The teacher would neatly line all the Kids up,  then turn to get some equipment and the queue would scatter instantly and try to kill each other with hula hoops. Sometimes they would join a different queue, causing complete confusion for the teachers. At one point a little boy subject the Girl to her first french kiss. He didn't even buy her a drink first. Honestly, Kids today. No manners.

The up and the down side of a day like today is that going back to work tomorrow will seem very normal and mundane. Moribund, even. It's good to have a bit of chaos in your life.

Lucky

I'm lucky enough to get home from work early enough to spend a couple of hours with the Kids. I say lucky, this was how my two hours went today.

On walking through the door I said hello to the Girl, who roundly ignored me. The Boy did say hello and then muttered at me from the other side of the house.

"Dad! Dad!" *mumbles*

"What?"

*mumbles*

"WHAT???"

"I wasn't talking to you."

"Who were you talking to? There's no one else in here."

"Er.... Me!" *mumbles then laughs maniacally*

Two minutes through the door and I was ready to go back to work. So I stalked upstairs in a fit of pique. The Girl followed me, jumped up and down on the bed whilst I got change and then, when I tickled her, kicked me firmly in the throat. This was not the first time I had been pole-axed by a three year old Girl, but it was one of the most painful.

Whilst I crawled on the floor gasping for air and clutching my throat the Girl jumped on my back and tried ride me like a horse. It took a few minutes for me to extricate myself from this state of affairs, and I only managed this by pretending to be dead.

I'm not proud of myself.

I went back downstairs, had the usual conversation with the Boy

"How was school?"

"Ooh. Er... Ah. Can't remember."

"What did you do today?"

"Can't remember."

*Sigh* "What's my name?"

"Mummy."

whilst the Wife snuck off to the Boy's open evening (a paltry excuse for abandoning me to the whims of my Kids). I cooked dinner, which for once they ate without the usual food throwing, crying and occasional soiled underwear (the Girl, not me. Well, sometimes me but only six, maybe seven times.)

I passed on giving them a bath, since the day before they'd insisted on having a shower. The net result of this shower was; I got soaked, it used more water than the bath, the Boy blinded himself with shampoo and the Girl would only allow her bum to get wet. As such I moved straight to books and bed time. Now that the Boy is more confident with his reading he likes to read books to the Girl and myself. This does not always go without a hitch. Tonight's moment of crisis was this;

"Hungry fox falls in the box. Look out fox! There's cum on your snout."

Brilliantly I reacted to this by yelling

"Not cum! Cream!"

Which I'm sure you'll agree was exactly the right thing to do. Having negotiated that particular minefield I got the Kids to brush their teeth. Or in the Boy's case his nose. Then off to bed and that was when the Girl slammed the anchors on. First she refused, then started yelling "No" over and over until eventually the Wife had to intercede.

"If you don't go to bed you won't be able to go to Grandma's party tomorrow."

"Don't care."

"Ok... What should I do to tell you off for not going to bed?"

*Thinks for a moment* "Kill Boris?"

I'll be honest, I was on her side there. I hate that cat.

Rules

You can only climb up. You can't climb down again, but you can always climb up.

Similarly, you can take things out of boxes, but can't put them back into boxes.


As long as your head is hidden no one can see you


When Mummy or Daddy take you to their friend's house, you must only play with the single most expensive item in the house, regardless of what it is. If unsure, head for the telly and try to push it over.


When your toys are in a box, you must remove all of them and put them on the floor. If you are told to put them back in, refer to point two.


Every time Mummy or Daddy tread on Lego, they love you a little bit more.


When you hear the word "don't" it actually means; "Wait until I'm not looking. Then go crazy."


Your Mummy is her own Mummy. Also she is your Daddy's Mummy. Also, Daddy is your Mummy's Daddy, and also his own Daddy. This must be true, because they call each other "Mummy and Daddy". Except at night.


Mummy and Daddy give you a bath because they want to you either drown your brother/sister or fart.


If you need the toilet always wait until you are in the bath, in the car, or at the very least as far as humanly possible from a toilet.


If you feel sick, find Daddy. Then be sick on him.


The cat/dog is your slave/patient/dolly. You are free to do what you want to it.


On entering nursery you must cry until Mummy and Daddy can't hear you any more, then play happily for the rest of the day. When your Mummy or Daddy pick you up, scream.


In an emergency, your ride-along toy car also doubles as a toilet.


If you haven't eaten something before, you don't like it.


If you have a runny nose or chocolate/ice cream/milk around your mouth, wait until Mummy or Daddy are dressed for work then pretend you want to cuddle them and wipe your face on them. They will think of you 'fondly' when they find your little present during that important presentation. 

Your nose is a legitimate source of food.


Dear Readers - let me know if you've got any more of these (preferably by the comments box below - you don't have to join anything to comment). I'll make it an expanding list.

In The Sun

"Dad! Dad!"

"What, Boy?"

"The Girl's throwing food at me!"

"Girl, stop throwing food at the Boy."

"He's in a zoo! I feeding him."

"I'M NOT A MONKEY!"

I don't know why, but my Kids either want to kill each other, or get married. And it changes in the blink of an eye. Over dinner yesterday the pair of them squabbled non stop. Either they were throwing food, tipping drinks on each other or - at one point - knife throwing. It truly was, to steal from Douglas Adams, the Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul.

After dinner the Kids went upstairs and whilst I was fart-arsing around I heard a thud and then the Boy said

"Are you all right, Girl?"

"Fell over."

"Did you fall over the Hoover?"

"Yes." *Starts crying*

"Don't cry! I'll cheer you up, I'll fall over the Hoover too!" *THUD* "Ow!" *Starts crying*

Still, it worked. When I got upstairs the Girl was laughing like a drain. 

The sweetest thing was that the Boy was tired and grumpy, and kept having meltdowns. So much so I had to give him a pep talk.

"Why do you think you're so tired?"

"Can't remember."

"Because you got up at five in the morning for a wee and instead of going back to bed you sat on the landing trying to feed Boris a toy car."

"Oh yeah. I got him to lick it once!"

The next day Nanna and Grandad came over prompting the Boy to mumble "Hello" and the Girl to yell "NO!" whenever anyone spoke to her. Or looked at her. Or weren't dead. Fortunately this passed and she resolved to lie face down on the ground for ten minutes. Along came new niece, and then Cousin. As ever there was a short stand off between the Girl and the Cousin who stared at each other like two gunfighters. The Boy broke the ice, in his own particular style, by punching himself in the face and falling over. We sat in the sunshine, laughing and joking. The Boy made the Girls laugh by trying to feed his bum to the chickens. The Girl complimented Nanna on her nails

"They're pink. I don't like pink."

And then all three Kids jumped on our slide and tried to push each other to their deaths. I cooked dinner for them - for which the Cousin was so grateful shepicked the broccoli off her plate and contemptuously flung it across the table.

After this afternoon I'm the happiest I have been for two weeks. It was an afternoon spent in the warmth of the family and the sun, surrounded by birdsong and laughter. Goodbye Winter. Hello Spring.

Play

Today the Wife and I took the Kids over to the brother-in-law's house for lunch. It was a lovely afternoon, we all coo-ed and ahh-ed over the new niece again. The Boy, the Girl and their other Cousin played nicely, and then not so nicely and then actually quite violently. Particularly when they were all on the trampoline (or "bounce-a-lene" as the Cousin insists on calling it) and the Girl and the Cousin tried to strangle the Boy with his own t-shirt. He didn't seem to mind too much. Either that or he knows better than to argue with two psychotic females.

After dinner the three children decided to put on a concert for the assembled adults, so they ran around collecting every musical instrument they could find (which turns out, was a lot) and set them up in the front room. Everyone was given a ticket (a post-it note), and we were ordered (not told - ordered) into our seats. The Cousin handed me a cushion and told me, rather pointedly 

"You have to use this to shoot any bad guys."

Then she and the Boy organised several "guards" around the stage, as if they were expecting trouble. It was a bit the Rolling Stones at the Isle of White - if you replaced Hells Angels with toddlers. Meanwhile, as a joke, I started shooting the Cousin with the cushion she'd given me. This did not go down well, and after a second time she confiscated the cushion from me

"Not me! You have to shoot bad guys!"

and demonstrated this by shooting her Grandmother. Having performed this execution, the Kids then proceeded with the concert. Now I know two of them were my Kids, and I'm a proud father so I'm a bit biased, but it really was god-awful. The Boy was on keyboards, the Girl (aptly) on drums and the Cousin on vocals. VERY vocals. Mainly what she did was tell us all off. In a weird way it was a bit like a free-form jazz recital I once went to. Then the Boy got up and danced like a robot, the Cousin ran out the room with her arms in the air and the Girl fell over the drums. Finally, the Boy tried to play the Kings of Leon "Sex on Fire"

"I can't find sex on the keyboard. Ess.... Sssss... Sssss..."

And before he asked us which key was sex, we all got up and left. Frankly the whole thing was a debacle. I really should have drunk more.

Big Day

Since its Mothers Day, my Kids came home from school with an assortment of crap that they'd made to show the Wife how much they love her. Nothing says "I love you" like a picture the Boy has drawn of himself playing football in the park and a legend that read

Tomum


lovefrom


BoyandGirl

Not one for spaces, my lad. As well as this, the Girl had made a heart shaped card, with bits of pink paper and glitter stuck to it. This did two things. Firstly it instantly adhered to the passenger seat of the car on the way home. Secondly it prompted everyone I've seen in the past two days to say to me; "You've got glitter on you."  In the same way that when you put TCP on a cut you have to endure six weeks of people sniffing and saying "You cut yourself?" The only person not to say this was the Girl, who alternately said

"You a lady!"

and

"Oooh... you preeeetty..."

in a very creepy way.

On top of it being Mothers Day, its also the nine year anniversary of the first date I had with the Wife and I remember it like it was nine years ago. I turned up in my tiny Nissan Micra, which was sort of like turning up in a pink tu-tu. I knocked on the door to discover her wearing a tracksuit (something I hate only slightly less than flip-flops. Weirdly this was the only time she wore a tracksuit) and had to convince myself not to fake a violent bout of diarrhoea. Fortunately I stayed and we had a romantic drink in a pub called the Pig and Whistle. She talked. A lot. We went back to her place. We discovered that we hated each other's taste in music.It was lovely. And in case you're wondering, no. I didn't put out. As the Girl says; I'm a lady.*

I was talking to the Boy and Girl about this as I drove them over to Grandma's house so I could rid myself of them for a while. They've been a nightmare this weekend

"Boy, this is the seventh time I've told you to put your clothes on! You're driving me insane!!"

(Girl, looking very confused) "You're not in Spain."

(Boy) "Gran comes from Spain."

"Not 'in Spain' - 'insane!' Gordon Bennett!"

"Who's Gordon Ben-?"

"GET IN THE CAR!!!"

Once I'd calmed down I got to talking to them about how I'd never really been happy until I met the Wife, and that she'd turned my life around. 

"I didn't really like myself before I met your Mum."
"I don't like myself."
(Concerned) "Really, Boy? Why not?"
"My winkle gets in the way of things."

I didn't enquire what "things" it was getting in the way of. Mine has never got in the way of anything, except for the occasional cricket ball, or knee. As often happens when the Boy speaks, there was an awkward silence. And as also often happens, this was broken by the Girl who yelled, quite aggressively

"Make a rainbow, daddy! MAKE A RAINBOW!"
"He can't, you berk!"
"Don't call your sister a berk!"
"Why, what does it mean?"

For those of you unaware, "berk" is cockney rhyming slang. The full phrase being "Berkeley Hunt" (I'll allow you to draw your own conclusions as to what it refers to. Safe to say, I didn't explain.

Gotta go, but before I do I feel compelled to mention that a friend of mine is getting married. So, Miss L, soon to be Mrs H - congratulations. I look forward to the day that your first child is born so that I can laugh at you. You've read this blog, its not like I haven't warned you.

*Some, all or none of this is actually true.

Love Me Do

Bing Crosby once told a story of the day his son's hamster died. To help his son come to terms with the demise of his pet he helped him make a beautiful coffin from a shoebox, repleat with satin lining and handles. When it was finally finished they put the hamster into it and, as they were closing the lid the hamster suddenly stirred, stood up and sniffed about. Crosby and his son looked at each other for a long moment until his son said; "Let's bury it anyway."

Now, our Girl loves her cat. I mean, ignoring the time she pushed a spoon up its bum. Aside from that, she's always giving it cuddles and telling it, rather oddly, to "Calm down". Generally when its asleep. Its not like  Boris (our cat) is particularly stressed. Its so laid back its more like a door stop than a cat. Regardless, the Girl loves Boris. Which is why the Wife was somewhat taken aback by the following conversation in the car. 

"Where's Sidney cat? Did he die? Did he?"
"Yes. He died because he was very old."
"Is Boris cat old?"
"No, don't worry. He won't die for a lo-"
(Interrupting) "When he dies can we get a kitten?"

Kids are honest, you see. They say what they think. And it turns out they're heartless little bastards. Earlier this week Uncle Will and Auntie Sarah brought our new niece round in her pram. We were in the back garden and so, not getting a response from our front door, they went to our back garden gate where they encountered the Boy blowing bubbles on the back step. When they asked him to let them in he replied

"When I've finished blowing bubbles."

And very deliberately blew bubbles all over them for five minutes before we realised what was going on and rescued them. This level of "affection" isn't reserved for uncles and aunts. Tonight the Boy said

"I love mum the most."

And followed this up with

"Except for dad. I love him more."

Typically this alienated the pair of us. Part of me wanted to focus all my affection on the Girl which lasted right up until she insisted on dragging me up to the toilet and shoving her knickers in my face saying

"No poo!"

And then, very loudly

"SNIFF MY KNICKERS!"

We have very thin walls in our house. Next door don't get eye contact with us anymore.

Panic

I had to pick the Kids up from school today, which is always a pleasure. That's not sarcasm, I mean it. Its one of the few times my Kids are glad to see me. So after work, I popped round the mother-in-law's for a quick cup of coffee, a conversation about the diet the Wife and I are on and a compliment ("You're not that fat. You don't look that bad") that left quite a lot to be desired... Then off to pick up the Kids.

As ever the Boy came out without a qualm, with a handful of sweets but somehow still choosing to eat his coat. We had our usual conversation on the way to the car;

"What did you do at school today?"
"Can't remember."
"Try."
*Sigh* "Something about numbers. Can I watch things exploding on the computer when we get home?"
"Er... yeah!"

Then off for a bout of driving up and down the road trying to find somewhere to park near the Girl's school whilst dodging humongous 4x4's driven by tiny, tiny women who don't feel that they need to LOOK OUT OF THE BIG WINDOW IN THE FRONT OF THE CAR.

Sorry. That's not relevant, it just really pisses me off.

At the school the Boy rushed off the play on the climbing frame whilst I and every other parent ignored each other by staring at our phones as if we'd had an urgent text message - when in fact I suspect most of them, like me, were trying to get three stars on Angry Birds. I was only roused from my reverie when I heard the Girl yell "Mummy!" (honestly, every bloody time) and run out of the door and head butt me in the crotch.

Once I'd recovered, I turned to the Boy and said "Come one" to discover he wasn't on the climbing frame. I looked around once, then again and, quite frankly, the bottom fell out of my world. He wasn't anywhere in the playground. I checked in the tree house whilst the Girl, having grown bored of me already, tried to escape. Getting properly scared I dragged her out through the gates thinking he might have tried to walk back to the car, but nothing. Then I started seeing the headlines, the press conference where we were begging whoever had him to give him back unharmed. And then the Boy nudged me in the back of the knee and said

"Ha ha! I was hiding!"

I love my son so much I simply can't express it in words, so I expressed it by grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, shaking him and shouting incoherently at him. This continued as I dragged him towards the car.

"You scared the hell out of me! Don't you ever do that again!"
"I was just hiding!"
"You scared mummy, Boy."
"Daddy. I'm daddy. And I'll tell him off thank you."
"Yeah, shut up, Girl."
"Don't you tell her to shut up."
"Yes. Don't tell me to shut up. You scared mummy."
"Actually, shut up, Girl."

Having got him in the car I took a deep breath and calmed down. I apologised to him, started the car and as we pulled away asked the Girl what she'd done at school today.

"I killed Benjamin."

So I lit up the front tyres and left as quick as I could.

I'm Not Eating That

In an impressive feat of greed the Kids ate eleven yoghurts between them at dinner. Now, we don't normally stand for that level of corpulence, but the Wife bought them down the market for the princely sum of twenty five pence. And they would have gone green by tomorrow so it seemed like a good idea. No doubt it will return to haunt us at three in the morning when it all comes hurtling out of them like a jet of cream cheese but that's a risk I'm willing for the Wife to take. Apologies if you're eating by the way.

The Boy has been going through an anti-vegetable phase in the past week. This is a little unusual because in the past I have seen him root through the fridge and pilfer raw broccoli. For a while he was very health conscious and would regularly tell anyone who would listen (and many that wouldn't)

"I have to drink lots of water or my poo will come out all hard."

However last week he switched personalities and turned into one of those balloon-like, moon faced children you sometimes see on "documentaries" called "Ten Stone Todders" or something equally intelligent. On being presented his dinner he scowled at it and we had a conversation during which we somehow reversed our roles.

"I hate vegetables. What's that?"

"Aubergine."

"I don't like it."

"You haven't tried it."

" Why is it black?"

"To annoy you. Just bloody eat it!"

"Don't say bloody. I'll tell mum."

"No, don't!"

This happens on occasion. Today it was like this

"Boy, can you ask mummy to make me a cup of coffee?"

"Mum, dad would like a cup of coffee," (looks meaningfully at me) "PLEASE."

Anyway, a row ensued and to cut a frustratingly long story short, it ended with him sitting behind his bedroom door crying. With no trousers on. Although I have no idea why he took his trousers off. Maybe he was contemplating a dirty protest.

After this colossal row (during which the Girl took my distraction as an opportunity to give herself a mashed potato shampoo) the Boy came round again, and the next day ate everything on his plate. Strangely, it made me want to strangle him slightly more. However, this feeling subsided a short while later when the Girl made her Barbie dance on me whilst I was sitting down and the Wife casually said

"I think she just made Barbie give you a lap dance."

You don't live here. You don't know what it's like.

Proof God Hates Me

Right, here's what happened. This is all true, so you can effectively treat it as my statement if you want. Its all the Girl's fault.

On Saturday I took my two delightful and not-at-all combative  Kids to see my mum. We had a nice day, playing and chatting. If you ignore the fact that the Boy and Girl spent most of the time hitting each other over the head with various  toys and small bits of furniture. After one particularly vicious incident involving the Girl, the Boy's nuts and a foot, I had to give the Girl a proper telling off. As I opened my mouth she looked at me and threw a pre-emptive tantrum. So, I sat on the sofa and picked her up to calm her down. This appeared to have the opposite effect, 'cos she tried to pull my face off. So I put her down again. I learn quick, you see.

Today I went into work and was asked what happened to my face pretty much all day. Initially I told the truth but after a while I grew tired of saying

"My three year old Girl did it."

Because I started to think people were making a judgement about me. Especially when someone very seriously told me that domestic violence was never acceptable, even when perpetrated by toddlers. And then laughed in my face. So I started making things up and when people asked me what happened to my face I would reply  "Frag grenade" or, simply; "Otter."

Turns out this was a mistake when simultaneously two of my colleagues found the same news article. It said that there had been an attempted sex attack in my town and that the suspect would be recognisable because - and I quote; "the victim had scratched his face several times."

Now obviously it wasn't me. But as my colleague pointed out, I didn't have an alibi, I had scratches on my face and - damningly - had changed my story several times.

I'm going to jail. I blame the Girl.

What Goes Around...

Few things bring greater joy in life than a new born baby. Specifically a new born baby that you can give back when it smells. And for the already experienced parent of two kids this joy is only surpassed by the opportunity to pass on your hard earned knowledge. So imagine bliss when the Wife and I took the Boy and Girl to see their day old cousin yesterday. It started so well, with lots of cooing and ahhing and pinching of cheeks before we gleefully told the proud parents how they would NEVER SLEEP AGAIN and had fundamentally RUINED THEIR LIVES.

The Boy was industrial grade underwhelmed, giving his cousin a cursory glance and a brief smile before stating, with some authority

"I think fish are better than babies."

and deciding to engage of his favourite pastime of alternately punching me in the crotch and clutching his winkle. The Girl was more interested, cooing and stroking the baby's face. Every now and then she would point at her and say "baby" to ensure we hadn't missed the reason we were all gathered there. Then she ruined everything by insisting on showing off her gymnastics (or, in everyone else's language; jumping) and narrowly avoided kicking the baby out of her basket.

Eventually we decided to go, as the Boy was due to go for his swimming lesson. It was at this point that the Kids started frothing at the mouth, went feral and disgraced themselves. The Boy immediately announced

"I NEED A POO!"

and locked himself in the toilet. Much pounding on the door and yelling "Hurry up for fu- er... crying out loud" ensued. The Girl tried to open the door by smashing her face against it and finally the Boy threw the door open in disgust. He stood frowning crossly with his hands on his hips, trousers round his ankles and proceeded to publicly and graphically wipe his bum in front of all of us, saying

"I need a clean bum. I'm going swimming. I don't want poo in the pool."

As the Girl attempted to climb up my trousers like the north face of the Eiger the Wife and I attempted to shout the Boy into his shoes. This woke up the baby who, for the first time since we were there, started crying. The Girl, who we had almost ushered out of the door insisted this was a spectator sport, and did an about-face. The Boy threw his shoes in the air in disgust and told us it wasn't fair the Girl got to watch a crying baby and that putting on shoes was "just stupid." He went on to say

"I want to watch almost naked animals."

Which alarmed everyone until he explained it was a cartoon on telly, and not some weird new peccadillo of his. Finally we managed to get the Kids out of the door and as I turned to congratulate my brother-in-law I noted his expression. It was the sort of expression you see in history books. Generally on the faces of new recruits arriving on the Western Front.

An hour of panicked rushing about later I found myself sitting with the Girl on my lap next to the swimming pool where the Boy was having his lesson. I say having a lesson, what he was essentially doing was water-boarding himself. The Girl sat on my lap trying to convince me to steal the towel of a small girl sitting nearby. A friend sitting next to me commented that the Girl was being well behaved and had turned a corner. I was in a bit of a bad mood, and I think I greeted this statement by giving our her the sort of look I'd give if she'd said; "Didn't Hitler have nice eyes?" I was particularly in a bad mood because I don't like being rushed, and the Boy had made me shout him back out of his shoes on arrival. And then shout him out of his clothes. And then into his swim suit. Plus, as ever the pool - which is the size of a postage stamp - was rammed with screaming, dripping wet children and their dim-witted, equally-wet-in-a-different-way parents. All of them bumbling about like lobotomised sheep, oblivious to people trying to get past as they either stared at their phones or shouted at their kids. All this in a room kept inexplicably at the temperature of Fukushima in the Spring. As I sat there, giving serious consideration to an AXE RAMPAGE and ever-so-slightly rocking back and forth like an obsessive compulsive, a memory came to me of a day five years before.

It had been three days after the Boy had been born and the Wife and I, exhausted having not slept since he'd been born, were paid a visit by the Wife's step sister and her ten month old son. For about an hour we sat, rapt in horrified attention as the little boy attempted to total our flat whilst his mum flailed about after him, trying to stop him from eating the soil from the pot plants or head-butting the doors. When she left we both looked at each other and said "What have we done??" before having brief but unpleasant emotional breakdowns. And that, essentially, was what we had inflicted on my brother-in-law and his wife.

So in future I shall think more carefully about handing out parenting advice. My new niece slept peacefully almost the whole time we were there, and was impeccably behaved. Ok, she was bombed out of her mind on pethidine, but we're not allowed to do that to the Kids any more. The doctor told us off last time. My Kids descended into madness the moment we asked them to put their shoes on. I haven't raised my Kids, I've warped them. As adequately proved when the Boy asked;

"When auntie had the baby, did she crack open like an egg? And did uncle have to glue her back together?"

Whilst, in the background, with a lack of irony that only a child or civil servant could muster yelled at the top of her voice

"DAD!! I LOVE WHISPERING!"

And today, when I asked her what she'd done at school she said

"Bogie throwing!"

Which isn't even on their curriculum!

For Eleanor