Antisocial Services

On the way home today I had to swerve to avoid a young mum who was busily pushing her newborn child into traffic whilst looking in the wrong direction and chatting on the phone. In gratitude for not crashing into her, she swore at me in her best estuary foghorn while the car behind me also swerved extravagantly around her. This served as a neat reminder that whilst it's easy to be a good parent, it's even easier to be a shit one.

When I first became a parent whenever the Boy would cry at night I'd make the generic gag about the neighbours calling social services. Because, of course, you never imagine you're going to be put in a situation where someone might call social services. Or the Police.

A situation, for instance, like when your daughter throws a tantrum in the middle of a busy shopping centre and, as a change from the monotony of yelling "No!"  over and over, she starts yelling;

"I want daddy! I want my daddy! "

And none of the passersby seem convinced as you hiss;

"I AM your daddy! "

Or the situation where your son, on a crowded beach, announces to the assembled throng;

"My dad doesn't like to be naked in public. "

Which wouldn't be weird if it weren't for the fact that no one had asked.

Or the situation where your children start calling each other "Mummy" and "Daddy" whilst having a sword fight (because, apparently, that's how we roll) and when your son attacks your daughter she yells (loud enough to be heard in an adjoining county);

"No, daddy! DON'T HURT ME! WHY, DADDY? WHY? "

Or the situation (and forgive me if I've mentioned this before) when your daughter tries to call the cat in by standing at the back door whilst staring at your burly next door neighbour and yelling" Pussy! " at him.

And yet, in the pyramid scheme that is my life, my Kids are firmly at the top and that, I think is the key.

Whilst I may moan about people giving their kids ridiculous names that are nothing more than a random collection of vowels and consonants, or intentionally misspelt traditional names (Alyx, Kris etc.) that doesn't mean they're bad parents.

It means they have a lack of class or are borderline illiterate.

Outside of the extreme cases of child abuse, the really bad parents are the ones who put themselves first. Because if you didn't want to spend time with your kids, you shouldn't have had them in the first place, you selfish arsehole.

And I'm not saying I'm perfect. The Boy has become obsessed with Nintendogs, and when he proudly showed me his dogs I noted he has; a miniature schnauzer, a toy poodle and a pug - which is the sort of menagerie you would expect a drag queen or Liberace to have. But I try to be open minded, and if he wants to call his dogs Raul, Talula and Joan Collins, that's fine with me.

However, if you're the sort of person that is more interested in talking on the phone than ensuring the safety of your child, might I suggest you get your shit in order?

Thanks.

For the person I spoke to first thing this morning.

19th Nervous Breakdown

And so, the summer holidays which went so well last year we decided to do exactly the same thing again. Mainly because we wanted to bring back a motherlode of cheap vin. This meant another mammoth drive the length of France.

Sadly, the Car was not in great shape, having a bit of a wobble which our local garage inspected, shrugged over and said;

"Might be alright."

So being sensible people, we decided to drive 2200 kilometres in an iffy motor. As we drove around the periferique in Paris, we crossed the Seine where we saw a sign I believe I have translated correctly as;

FERK YEW! NUR ROAD MARKINGS FUR YEW, STUPID ENGLEESH.

Because at that point the road markings vanished. This had no effect on the native French drivers, since they weren't bloody following them anyway. However, we were, and our journey rapidly disintegrated into a maelstrom of stress and blaming each other until we came out the other side.

However, this and a crazy French man playing "Who's lane is it anyway?" aside, we arrived at our beautiful gite unscathed and only slightly disturbed to find the front of the building was held up by three acroprops. A lovely large house, big enough for two families as well as a large number of flies, silverfish and enormous bees that looked like little flying Darth Vaders.

I shall not dwell on the pleasant aspects of the holiday, such as the company of the friends staying with us, or the food or wine or relaxation - since you don't make readers laugh with "had a lovely time, nothing went wrong." The reader friendly highlights involved;

Going to the beach (or, as they call it in French,  "Le ashtray") and the Boy and his friend standing in the sea, eating baguettes and eyeing up two women in bikinis in the least subtle manner possible. (Also, the Boy's friend's sotto voiced "Dad, some of these ladies aren't wearing tops! " as if we hadn't noticed. Which we had. Several times.)

An attempt at a car based game that went;

"Can you say four words that rhyme with: tree? "
Boy "Wee. Me. Three."
Girl "Bibble? Is it bibble?"
"No"
Girl "Ooh! Ooh! Is it whore?"

The moment when, after bravely assisting a family that had driven into a ditch I realised I'd been wearing the Wife's pink sandals.

The Boy in the supermarche pointing at a pack of Tena  for men and asking me if I needed them.

The Boy trying to get out of the way of a car by running in three different directions at once.

But it was the Girl who stole the limelight. We were sitting around the dinner table when, in the style of a Jane Austen protagonist  she suddenly piped up;

"I've got to tell you something. "

We all turned to look at her, and once she gauged all attention was on her she announced;

"I'm preglant."

And potato came out of my nose.

By the time we started the return journey after two weeks the Car  was wobbling like an actress accepting an Oscar. At a service station somewhere near Dijon the Wife and I discussed the likelihood of the car finishing the journey (low), breaking down after we'd got the ferry over to Blighty (even) or keeling over just outside Calais (you bet your sweet arse). This had a fairly dramatic effect on my need for the toilet, so I went off to find the loo.

Initially signs seemed good. Literally. The sign for the men's toilets was this;

Bowel movements! Yay!

Which suggested that either it was going to be the best crap of my life, or a warning about cottaging. It turned out neither of these were true as this was one of those peculiarly French loos which is fundamentally two footmarks and a hole. Now, I love the French, but if after several thousand years your sanitation system still consists of crouching over a hole and praying your aim is good (especially in a country that considers the flip flop it's national footwear), I refuse to accept it as a civilised society.

About two hundred kilometres from Calais the Car started making a WOM WOM WOM that had the word "terminal" written through it like a stick of rock. For nearly two hours we dealt with this by turning the radio up and singing loudly. At one point we were singing Simon and Garfunkel, it was that bad. Somehow we limped onto the ferry and an hour later breathed a sigh relief as the ferry doors opened onto the white cliffs of Dover. The relief was palpable right up until we drove off the ferry into the worst rain storm I have ever seen. It was like someone has turned the sea sideways. On seeing this the Boy collapsed into hysterical laughter and told us it was the funniest rain he had ever seen.

Long story short, we made it back. Two weeks of relaxation totally erased by the journey back. When my Mum asked the Kids what they liked best about their holiday the Boy said;

"Teaching my dog to roll over in Nintendogs."

Whereas the Girl insisted she didn't like France based on the fact that;

"They have pips in their grapes. "

Money well spent, I'm sure you'll agree.

Fit to Drop

So I've been out running a lot recently. Those of you that know me will realise that in previous years I would have been more likely to say "So I've been taking the rough edge of a pineapple to myself"  but hey, times change and life insurance doesn't get cheaper.

What makes the pain and effort worth it is that I get to come home to the bosom of my family where my aching bones will be met by the Wife's loving and sympathetic;

"Aw... Have you got a hurty knee? MAN UP, PRINCESS! "

The other night I returned from a run to find the rest of the family sitting outside waiting to see if they could see any bats.

"Is that a bat?"

The Girl asked, pointing at a pigeon.

"No. It's a pigeon. "

"What's it doing?"

"Flapping. "

"I'm scared of flaps."

And since the Wife and I have got the same level of maturity as a 13 year old school boy we both collapsed into laughter until the Girl kicked me in the shin.

Similarly today I cycled home from work - and allow to digress a moment - during which I had the most civil disagreement of my entire life. I was cycling on,  and I can't emphasise this enough, A CYCLE PATH where a delightful elderly couple were walking their dog in such a way they took up the whole path. I gave a gentle ding on my bell twice to no avail and only when my brakes started squealing as I stopped did they turn around. I gave them a cheery smile, and the lovely elderly lady said, with a voice like Hyacinth Bucket;

"You could ring your bell, you know. "

I smiled again.

"I did,"

I said, politely,

"I'm afraid it's not very loud. "

"Well maybe you should get a louder one, "

she suggested, not unkindly. I stopped and turned around.

"Could I ask a question? "

"Yes?"

"Would you walk along a busy road and expect cars to toot at you so you could get out of the way? "

Clearly seeing where I was going with this, she bristled and testily said;

"I might!"

"Well, then it's a pleasant surprise for you that you haven't been weeded out of the gene pool by natural selection. The unfortunate consequence for society is that there's just that little bit more stupid in the world. "

And then I finished with -  and I'm not kidding -

"I bid you good day, madam."

Which I've never said before in my life.

That was when she called me a prick.

Anyway, when I returned home it was the Boy who supplied the entertainment. A friend dropped by to drop off some shorts for the Wife. We're off on our holibobs tomorrow, you see. Whilst chatting to our friend I mentioned that it took going on a two week holiday for me to realise I only have seven pairs of underwear. And no, they don't have the days of the week on them. My socks do though. My friend replied jokingly;

"You could borrow my other half's pants. He's still got some in the plastic. "

"My pants were in plastic until this morning. Look, "

the Boy said,  strolling over and pulling his strides down.

"Boy! Not cool! "

Deftly ignoring me he continued;

"I like these one's because they've got a pee hole. Look."

"Noooooooooo! "