The Wrong Side of the Road (Part 2)

Despite the sun playing peek-a-boo most of our first full day in France, I managed to get sunburn. Not sunburn in any normal, conventional sense. No. In my finite wisdom, I decided to put factor thirty on my tattoo and my mole and then, being distracted by the Girl shouting at wasps, forgot to put any other sunscreen on. When I get sunburnt I find it's very binary in nature. I either don't have it, or my skin turns the colour of red wine and then sloughs off in great quantities for weeks on end. Plus, it creeps up on me. So I didn't notice how burnt I was until I got home, had a shower and started screaming. When I got out of the shower a gibbering, scarlet wreck I glanced in the mirror to discover I was glowing red save for a neat circle around my tattoo and another around my mole. I looked, in short, like the flag of Japan in reverse. 

The next day it was cloudy and grey, so someone (an idiot) came up with the grand plan of going to the local caves. As you may recall, I deal with tunnels in the same way small children deal with a cold, clammy hand grabbing their ankle as they climb into bed. The same is said for caves. So it was a surprise even to myself that I was the idiot that suggested going to the caves. I suggested it for two reasons;

1. it would be cool in there
2. they are called La Grotte Clamouse - which makes me laugh (it sounds like someone crapped on your dessert)

The Kids loved the Grotte, and to anyone not concentrating on the billions of tonnes of rock just waiting to collapse on their head, it is very beautiful. Unfortunately, for me it was like being suspended by a single cotton thread over a ravine filled with crocodiles armed with chainsaws. Whilst on fire. For two hours.

"Daddy's saying 'ship' a lot."

On and on and on it went, with our guide taking pains to explain how the caves were first discovered, and when this seventy tonne stalactite came crashing down, oh, and how the caves fill up with water in seconds during a rain storm. Lovely. Next time we're on holiday I'm going to suggest train surfing.

"And 'ere we aff a tank wiz ze fish zat aff no eyes..."

I turned to the Boy and said (in a noticeably quavering voice)

"Boy! What do you call a fish with no eyes?"

"No eye deer!"

He replied, and cracked up at his own joke. Tosser.

Eventually we got out, only avoiding being crushed to death by the piffling fact the cave didn't collapse whilst we were in it.

"That... was... AWESOME!"

The Boy yelled, and we took him and Girl to the shop where they eschewed buying anything cave related and instead bought the worlds most disgusting sweets. They consisted of little plastic fire extinguishers that sprayed cola flavoured hydrochloric acid in your mouth. Naturally, the pair of them redecorated the interior of the car with them, smearing the windows and creating a large, mobile wasp magnet.

The next day we went to the local market. Now I have failed to mention up until now that we were with family. Brother-In-Law, Sister-In-Law, Father-In-Law, Step-Mother-In-Law, Step-Brothers-In-Law and their respective girlfriends. The group of us went to the local market, wandered around acquiring all manner of tat and then took a seat at a bar in the town square to enjoy the particularly awful service. After forty minutes of waiting we moved to another bar where we waited forty minutes to be told it would be forty minutes before they would serve us. This made the Girl grumpy. To compound matters, the Wife had volunteered to take one of the Brother-In-Law's girlfriends to the local tattoo parlour to help her book an appointment. The Girl wanted to go. We disagreed, 

Thus was lit the fuse on the worst tantrum she's thrown in recent years. We waited for the Girl to look the other way and I hissed "Run!" at the Wife. This gave me about thirty seconds of peace before the Girl looked back round, saw what had happened and went a funny colour.

Interestingly the French have a different way of dealing with the sudden appearance of a satanic, screaming infant in their midst than the English. In England, everyone pretends not to have noticed. In France they treat it like a form of street theatre, and pull up chairs next to you to watch.  So, with approximately two-hundred people looking at me, I tried to deal with the Girl. Since she was blocking the door of the bar and I was getting "that look" from the staff, I braced myself and  picked her up. My plan was to take her to the other side of the road, where she couldn't get in anyone's way. I imagine it was a similar experience to cuddling a wolverine. She screamed blue murder, kicked and fought and then ran her fingernails across my sunburnt shoulders.

Ouch.

This made me let go, at which point she tried to run out into the road. In a moment of panicked reflex I managed to grab the back of her dress and yank her out of the path of a car before we both ended up in a pile by the side of the road. What felt like a month passed and, just as she was calming down a little old lady with a zimmer frame came over, smiled at me and before I could say; "Non!" started talking to the Girl - who reacted with such volume and bile the old dear literally ran away. And queue another god-knows-how-long of; "No! No! No!" Eventually I managed to distract her by showing her a statue of a lion and in a blink of an eye the whole storm passed like it had never happened. The assembled throng of French market goers looked disappointed, turned back to their drinks and went back to ignoring us.

The next day we went straight to the lake, as this didn't appear to cause the Girl to melt down. I like the lake, it's very peaceful save for the Girl yelling;

"SHUT UP! WE'VE GOT TO BE QUIET!!"

We swam a lot. The Boy insisted, at one point yelling at one of the Step-Brothers-In-Law;

"GET IN THE WATER, YOU JESSIE!"

Before more kindly pointing out;

"It's okay once it's over your nuts."

We inflated the Kids dinghy, tied it to my foot and swam out across the lake, looking for fish and dragonflies. When it was time to come back in I turned around and made for the bank again.

"Did you tie that on properly?"

The Wife asked. I sagely nodded, and explained my expertise with knots.

"Are you still attached Kids?"

"Yes!"

I gave the Wife a "told-you-so" look and swam on laughing about how funny it would be if we turned around and found they were a dot on the horizon.

"Dad."

A small voice said.

"We're not attached any more."

And we turned to discover they were, in fact, a dot on the horizon. Took me a quarter of an hour to catch up with them. By the time I got back I was shattered, and the Girl was geographically disadvantaged;

"Are we in England?"

The rest of the holiday passed relatively uneventfully. The Boy found a level of humour I couldn't have imagined when I explained what happened to the French monarchy;

"Ha ha! Heads cut off! Brilliant!"

And before we knew it, we were having a meal out to celebrate our last night on holiday - where I had the single best pizza of my life. The Girl, clearly enjoying the bonhomie of our last night, pole danced gratuitously for us, around a tree growing up through the middle of the restaurant.

Dear god, no.

Once she finished she sat on the floor in the middle of the restaurant, legs akimbo, skirt hoicked up, and graphically scratched her bits and pieces - thereby putting everyone off their food.

And then, at the end of it all, something weird happened. On the journey home we stopped at some services in the middle of the night so the Kids could go to the loo. The Wife took the Girl to the lady's, whilst I took the Boy to the men's. As the Boy and I walked back out into the warm night I realised I'd had the first real family holiday abroad that we would all remember - and I came over a bit wobbly. I picked the Boy, gave him a cuddle and told him how much I loved him. He smiled, looked at me and said;

"You're the best dad in the world."

And then;

"Heads cut off! I love it!"

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.

The Wrong Side of the Road (Part 1)

For once I have a lot to say, so this will be a two part post.

Yesterday my next door neighbour gave me a very funny look. The sort of look I expect she'd have if she'd found me unexpectedly in her bathroom. I'd been innocently packing our belongings away in the shed after our trip to France last week. The Wife had let the chickens out of their run for a while, and they were merrily getting in my way. Chickens are fundamentally stupid animals, and when you approach them they think you're going to kill them, so they do the only thing they can think of to survive - they offer themselves up for sex. I have to say, when the Wife gets angry enough I try the same tactic. It doesn't work for me.

Anyway, they do this by crouching down and raising the shoulders of their wings slightly. They also stop walking, which meant I was continually staggering around, carrying heavy stuff and trying not to tread on the bloody things. Eventually, this all got a bit much for me. I'd had two hours sleep, driven eight hundred miles and been subjected to motorway service station coffee. So I yelled;

"For Christ's sake I don't want to shag you, you dumb ****ing bird."

And that was when I saw my neighbour.

It was nice to be back. And by nice, I mean shit. Only a week before the whole family had been positively ecstatic at the thought of buggering off to the south of France and doing little other than eating and sleeping. So much so the Kids nearly exploded with excitement as we boarded the ferry at Dover at eight in the evening.

"We're in France!"

"We haven't left yet."

The plan was to drive through the night from Calais to Montpellier, swapping the driving duties as we went. How simple it all sounded. The ferry crossing was smooth enough, I had been slightly nervy we might have to endure one of those vomit-chain-reaction crossings, but it was all plain sailing. Literally. Except without sails. So maybe not. I'm confused, so I'll move on.

The only fly in the ointment was that the Girl insisted on walking around with her hands down the back of her trousers. When I told her off for this she turned and waspishly yelled;

"MY BUM IS ITCHY! I NEED TO SCRATCH IT."

This drew some attention.

Eventually we docked at eleven PM French time. We bundled the Kids in their pyjamas, strapped them in and -

"Are we in France yet?"

"Yes."

"Why are we in France?"

- were off. Now you'll be expecting me to tell you that something happened with Kids on the way, probably involving poo, and the whole journey turned into a nightmare. Wrong. Instead, I had a coffee on the ferry and threw our whole sleeping/driving plan out of the window. I couldn't get to sleep when I needed to and then when it was my turn to drive, all I wanted to do was sleep. At one point I was so mesmerised by the combination of unlit roads and tiredness I couldn't work out how to pull off the motorway. You might wonder why we didn't stop and sleep, but that would have meant driving for seven to ten hours with conscious children in the back. If I tell you I would rather risk hurtling into a ravine with my entire family than suffer that, the parents among you will probably understand why.

The Kids woke up just after dawn, just before we were about to cross the enormous bridge at Millau. It's an amazing spectacle and you haven't seen it I urge you to do so. It's very beautiful. The Boy was very impressed and, as we drove onto it said excitedly;

"We're on the bridge!"

And then, slightly ominously;

"The bridge of dooooooooooom."

And then;

"WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!"

As it turned out, we didn't, which everyone agreed was the best outcome. Still, it took another couple of hours to get to where we were staying and even then we had to fart arse around, waiting to be able to get into the house we were staying in, driving around, being lost, trying not to shout at each other, shouting at each other. The short version is that after thirty six hours without sleep we finally got into the house.

To celebrate this the Girl threw a two hour tantrum because after twelve hours of being drive through France she didn't want to get out of the car. Any other child would have stabbed you as soon as you looked at your car keys, but not my Girl. She's got commitment. And she's contrary. Consequently, barely able to see with exhaustion, I carried the wailing wildcat into the house and essentially sat on her until she calmed down.

After forty hours without sleep I finally drifted off, only to wake up the next morning to find my left eye had stopped working, meaning the Wife had to drive everywhere. The upside of this was that I could drink. So I got plastered. This, I discovered, massively improved my outlook and therefore I decided to remain that way.

We spent most of the next few days swimming in the local lake, sitting in the sun whilst the children played, drinking wine (us, not the Kids), eating out and relaxing. The Kids were particularly taken with lake and especially with the idea that if the needed a wee they could simply walk out to waist height and... bingo. The Boy pretty much turned this into his new hobby. The Girl didn't initially get the idea and would simply walk a foot into the lake, sit down and wee. At one point she was eating an apple when she was caught short. Clearly paranoid that her apple might become contaminated, she held it up above her head whilst she sat in an inch of water and wet herself. I have a photo if this. It will be brought out when "boyfriends" turn up at my door, oh yes.

Fortunately they didn't crap in the lake. I'd had my concerns but the one time the Boy needed a poo (as ever, announcing it with panicky gusto to the world) he allowed the Wife to trot him off to the porta-potty we kept in the car. It's basically a stool with the seat cut out, over which you place a bag and they crap in the bag. Then you tie the bag up and throw it into any passing convertible with the roof down. At least that's what I do.

After some time the Boy returned without the Wife. When I asked him where she was he jerked a thumb in the direction of the car park and said;

"She's double-bagging and gagging."

It transpires that the Boy had been "saving up" and done a poo so big the Queen turned up and smashed a bottle of champagne over it.

Coming up in tomorrow's thrilling instalment;

I get sunburn

I get claustrophobia!

The Girl throws another tantrum!

French drivers!

We set the Kid's adrift!

A quadruple murder!^

A terrible secret is revealed!*

^ Er... well, sort of.

*Not really.

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.

Park Life

Having spent most of my late teens and twenties in love with cars but without the means to buy one that didn't want to kill me, I also spent a lot of that time lying under cars. Not to say that I'm a skilled mechanic. Far from it. I once jacked a two and a half tonne van up on a scissor jack and, against no odds, it fell on my head once I climbed under it. I've electrocuted myself, driven screws through my hand, rounded every nut I've touched and accidentally drank engine oil (I was not well.) On one distressingly memorable occasion I sat in a puddle of battery acid I hadn't realised I'd spilt. At the risk of being indelicate, sulphuric acid and bum holes should never cross paths. Also, the arse fell out of my jeans which - as far as my Dad was concerned -  was the funniest occurrence in history.

So I didn't hold out much hope this afternoon when I started removing the front wing of my car. I won't bore you with why I had to do this, but assume it was both necessary and unwise and naturally it wasn't long before I was lying under the car try to swear it into working. This sort of thing draws my Kids to me like moths to a flame.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm failing to undo this nut."

"Why are you failing?"

"Because it's cleverer than me."

"Why is it-?"

"Boy, will you just fu-" (Deep breath) "Er... Pass me the spanner next to your foot?"

"What's a spanner?"

"It's the shiny silver thing with a circle at each end."

"Ok."

"...Boy?"

"Yes?"

"Why have you given me a dandelion?"

But he'd gone. Presumably to talk someone into jumping off a ledge. He came back later to annoy me, and when I finally lost my temper he patted me on the head and went away. However, despite my the angry vein on my temple ballooning to unprecedented size,  I somehow won this battle with the car. So I went back inside to crow about it to the Wife.

"Aha! Me big man! Me fix car!"

"You've got a flower behind your ear."

"What?"

"That was me."

the Boy said, without looking up from his book.

To celebrate this success we took the Kids and their scooters for a walk in the park. This seemed to confuse the Girl no end.

"Where's the park?"

"We're in the park."

"Where are the swings?"

"Its not that kind of park.Its a park with a lot of grass, and little gardens."

"Oh." (Pause) "Are we going to the park?"

"We're IN the park, Girl."

"Oh." (Pause) "Where are the swings?"

"Lets go and get ice cream!"

So we went to get ice cream - something I assume only the British do when its ten degrees Celsius and pissing with rain. Whilst the Wife stood in the queue, I showed the Kids around the outside of a stately home, some stables and then, having run out of ideas, the toilet block.

"Why are dogs allowed in the toilets?"

"Well, I guess because a lot of people walk dogs in the park and they can't leave them outside. And some people might have guide dogs."

"What's a guide dog?"

"Well, Girl - it's a dog that helps blind people walk about without bumping into things."

Now there are many replies to this. The one I hadn't expected was

"Boris is a guide cat."

"No he isn't."

"HE IS!"

"Girl, Boris keeps walking into the patio doors. I really hope he isn't a guide cat."

"HE IS!"

Fortunately the Boy saved me with the words

"Ooh! I need a poo!"

And so the three of us found ourselves in the worst public toilets that have ever assaulted the senses of mankind. They were the kind of toilets where you try to get in and out without touching any surface in the place, including the floor. The Boy, for once aware of his surroundings, did his business quickly and we bailed out into the sweet air outside where the Wife was waiting for us. Seeing my expression she said

"You alright?"

"Those were, without doubt, the worst toilets I've ever been in."

The Boy nodded and, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, said

"Yeah, they let girls in there!"

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.

Worry

Regular readers ("Hello mum!") will know that I worry quite a lot. Just because I'm a worrier, doesn't mean I haven't got a reason to be worried. Allow me to present Submission A, Mi'lud;

Barbie Does Dallas

This is not a random occurrence. Whenever I find the Girl's Barbie, she's in this position. The Girl is either making a statement on the sexualisation of children's toys, or she's opened a toy VD clinic. And yes, that cushion is saying "hello." Its very polite.

Its not that I really think that she's doing these things. But it worries me on a level I can't quite explain. As if its a little warning that in the future, when the Kids are a little older, things will be much more complicated. In the same way that I say to prospective parents "Huh! Think things are tough now, wait until your kid is born!" parents of teenagers say; "You ain't seen nothing yet, mate." The Wife tells me horror stories of what she was like as a teenager, and I remember... Well, actually I was a geek. I spent most of my childhood trying and failing to program a ZX Spectrum. My highest level of achievement was;

10 Print "TITS!"

20 Goto 10

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

The idea of the Girl liking boys (or girls) is still a dim and distant thing since she's only three. I can't quite imagine how I'll react to a spotty oik turning up on my doorstep claiming to be her boyfriend. I my head I'll say "No. You're not," and spray Mace in his eyes. But on a certain level, I know I won't be doing that. At this point I'm more concerned about her anger management issues and sadistic streak.

"Where's mummy going?"

"She's going to give blood."

"I want to see!"

"You wouldn't want to see people sticking needles in her."

"I would!"

Or her weird obsession with the cat

"I'm sniffing Boris' bum!"

However, I once had a discussion that if the Girl was parachuted into the jungle she'd find a way to survive. She's naturally pragmatic. She'd be a bit like John Rambo in First Blood. She isn't the one to worry about.

The Boy, on the other hand... Well, the Boy isn't that practical. He has to learn everything the hard way

(Examining his pants) "My plan worked! At school I wiped my bum AFTER I did a poo!"

If you parachuted the Boy into the jungle, he wouldn't survive. He'd get eaten. Probably by the Girl. Either that, or there would be some terrible misunderstanding. It seems that the Boy doesn't so much get the wrong end of the stick, but miss the stick entirely. As demonstrated by

"Where's mummy?"

"She's getting the car fixed, then giving blood."

"To the car?!?"

And

"I don't know why they call her Mrs Lovall. She doesn't love anyone."

Or, he'd forget to eat. The Boy has a memory of a strobe-lit goldfish. Every day he comes home from school and I ask him what he did, and every day he says; "I forgot." In fact, he can forget things mid-sentence.

‎"Dad, what's the difference between a bogies and spinach?"

"I don't know. What is the difference between bogies and spinach?"

"I can't remember."

Most of all I worry he's going to end up in a secure unit with one of those nice button-up-the-back canvas jackets they give you.

"I licked a blow off once."

Dog House

The Boy is in the dog house. I took a day off work early last week and had the opportunity to drop the Kids at school. It was during this that the Boy indulged in his new game. He stayed in the car whilst I dropped the Girl off an when I returned he'd turned the interior of the car into the third circle of hell by dropping his guts so pungently it actually made me cry. I'm not sure what we've been feeding him but the Police could use it to disperse rioters. I had to drive with my head out of the window. Naturally he thought this was hilarious. So hilarious he did it to the Wife the next day.

Then at bath time we had our traditional row, culminating in the following conversation;

"Don't forget who is the boss around here."
"Mummy."
"No... Well, yes. But who else is the boss?"
"Grandma?"
"No..."
"The Girl?"
"No!"
(Pause) "Boris?"
"No, Boy. The cat is not the boss. I am the boss."
(Doubtfully) "Mmmm."

On top of this he's become so obsessed with his new camera he constantly videos things. More often than not me. Its like being under video surveillance. Its only a matter of time before he shows the camera to the Wife and says; "Listen to what dad is saying" and she hears me talking about the time I trapped my balls in a Corby trouser press.

To cap it all off he was kicking a football about and I overheard him yell


"Chelsea score!"

I support Charlton. (I should explain this for my American readers - imagine your son tells you he doesn't like baseball / basketball / American football but instead wants to play soccer. I know. Unthinkable)

Clearly, this is beyond the pale. So much so that I texted the Wife what he'd done and told her he had a week to find somewhere else to live. Her response to this was "Tell him to support Manchester United, they're way better" so a divorce is on the cards. 

And for that I blame him. 

The Girl has been sweetness and light this week though. Well... up until today when - whilst walking past her pregnant Aunt who was sitting on the sofa - she paused, prodded her tummy and gave her a look as if to say; "Sort it out, love."Dog

Driving Me Nuts

If there is one universal truth it is this; nothing sucks the fun out of a traffic jam like kids. I love driving, I love my Kids. I would rather feed myself into a garden strimmer than put the two things together. You see driving is my favourite form of catharsis. The inside of my car is the one place that I can shout obscenities at people without being punched in the face.

Generally.

The Wife recently noted that my own driving style involves loudly and angrily pointing out the idiocy of my fellow drivers whilst remaining blithely unaware of my own errors. I think she's half right. Allow me to give you an example of my driving philosophy. 

Disclaimer: if you drive a Volvo, wear gloves whilst driving, smoke a pipe or don't have opposable thumbs, THIS IS NOT FOR YOU

I reserve a particular hatred for people who hog the middle lane on motorways. The sort of hatred that most people reserve for serial killers, wasps or the Jeremy Kyle show.*  As a result of this I have come up with a brilliant way of dealing with them. First of all I catch up with them in the slow lane, carefully and safely (and more importantly - legally) move into the fast lane and overtake. When I'm a few hundred yards ahead I move back into the slow lane and then slow down to let them overtake me. Then I go back out into the fast lane, overtake and repeat. So in effect you orbit the offending car. Not only is it safe, its educational for the offending driver, and its bloody hilarious. My record is fifteen circuits around the same car. The only reason I stopped was because I'd missed my junction. The Wife hates this.

Now you might be thinking I'd be insane to do this with the Kids in the car, and that's my point. I don't get to do it when I have the Kids in the car. Put kids in the car and driving becomes mundane and dreary. At no point are you allowed to have the sort of fun that starts with; "WATCH THIS!" and ends with a car exiting a hedgerow backwards whilst on fire. And that first drive with your new born baby - there's no joy in that either. Its like driving with nitro-glycerine in the boot. The whole time you're expecting to get t-boned by an truck, or struck by a meteor, or have a giant eagle swoop down and fly away with the car (that might just be me). Only once have I been more terrified whilst at the wheel of the car which was this;

On a return journey we'd stopped to get ripped off at a toll booth. Whilst re-mortgaging the house for the  honour of driving through a tunnel I pointed out a mini-digger on a trailer in a neighbouring lane. The Boy loves diggers. Anyway, because I had Kids on board and therefore had to drive at the speed of glaciation, the truck with the digger on the back left the tolls before me. I thought no more about it until a short while later when the digger was literally flying through the air towards my car. The trailer had lost a tyre and thrown the digger straight up in the air and while everything went slow-motion and surreal as I swerved out of its way the Boy took this opportunity to say

"Look, dad! There's that digger again!"

As if was an every day occurrence. I failed to respond to this other than to say "shitshitshitshitshitshitshit."

The most you can hope for is a dull, mind-numbing journey because the alternatives are tantrums (bad), drawing on the roof lining (very bad) or vomit on the back of your head (I simply don't have the words). Yes, vomit on the back of the head. Whilst driving. And trust me, dads - when that happens you're the one person who doesn't get sympathy. And don't you dare suggest Eye Spy either because I'll quite happily track you down and run you over (assuming I haven't got the Kids in the car.) Have you ever played Eye Spy with a five year old and a three year old? At the risk of spoiling the suspense for you, the answers are always; "sky", "road" or "car." I've had dental work more fun than that.

*For non-Brits - Jeremy Kyle is like Jerry Springer but with far, far less class. Imaging smearing excrement on your television. Its a bit like that but with adverts.

Pants on Fire

Which one of these is not a lie?

1. Genesis front man Phil Collins invented the Vienetta ice-cream whilst at catering college
2. Jehovah Witnesses do not believe in the moon because "it's pagan"
3. The name Samantha is derived from the Latin word for "aircraft"

Answers at the end of this blog.

I'm a big fan of recreational lying. Not for any malicious or sinister reasons, simply because its fun to see what you can get people to believe. This isn't to test the how gullible people are, I only lie to intelligent people. What I like to do is think of a ridiculous "fact" such as; "The reason the water goes down the plughole in the opposite direction south of the equator is because the bottom half of the Earth spins in the opposite direction to the top." I then deliver said "fact" with confidence and authority to see if perfectly intelligent, rational people will believe it. And they often do. I once had an entire department at work discussing the amazing fact that polar bear hair is actually black based on the fact that; "its really shiny and it reflects the snow." 

"What a card," you're thinking. I know. At work I'm something of a cult. At least, that's what it sounds like they say. Since I'm an appalling parent, I've taken to do this with the Kids. Only last night at bath time I told the Boy that there had been a mistake on his birth certificate and he had to be a girl from now on.

"For real?"

"Sorry, kiddo. Its true."

"But I've got short hair!"

"We're going to let it grow long and put you one of the Girl's dresses."

"That's stupid! It won't fit!"

I love his sense of priority there.

Watching the Boy learning to lie has been quite the eye opener. I'm thinking of getting a training grant from the government because, to put it mildly, he's rubbish at it. In fact, he only began lying once he started school. Previous to this he answered every question with total (and often comic) candidness.

"Boy? Why is the Girl crying?"

"I kicked her in the head."

This progressed to

"Why is the Girl crying?"

"I don't know."

"Did you kick her in the head?"

"Only once!"

Before finally getting to

"Why is the Girl crying?"

"Er..." (Long pause) "She fell?"

That is pretty much as sophisticated as it gets with the Boy. Even when he tries hard he quite often catches himself out.

"Did you eat my chocolate when I told you not to?"

"Er... noooooooooo."

"Why is your face covered in chocolate?"

"I ate your chocolate."

"You ate my chocolate?!?"

"No! I didn't!"

Regardless of how bad he is, I've decided to start a zero tolerance policy to any lying. (I'm nothing if not a hypocrite) and have come up with what I think is an excellent strategy. Naturally it relies on telling an OUTRAGEOUS lie yourself, but if I say so myself, I'm a genius. And because I'm a kind genius I'm going to share this with any parents out there.

The next time your son or daughter tells you a very obvious lie, stare intently into his or her right eye and say the following words; "Aha! I know you're lying! When you lie a little light comes on in  your eye!"  For at least a while after this they'll either not lie or cover their eyes when they do. Plus, its hilarious. Its the most fun I've had with the Kids since I tried to get them to high-five one afternoon. Kept them quiet of ages because they simply couldn't manage it. Although that did backfire a bit. Eventually the Boy accidentally slapped the Girl in the face. At that point she pushed him over and sank her teeth in his bum. I had to give her a good telling off. He never wipes properly.

The Girl hasn't learnt to lie yet. She needs to learn a lot more about the world. There's still a lot of things that she doesn't really understand. A point proved this morning by the following text I got from the Wife

Girl throwing Boy's shoes down the stairs and telling cat to fetch.

Answer to question above - It was a trick question. They're all true. Honest!