He still believes

He also still believes in the Tooth Fairy and Santa mind you. Though he's beginning to have his doubts...

Heaven is real?

I overheard the kids having their first theological debate today. Well, I say debate - if shouting at the top of your lungs and spitting Hovis Best of Both at each other is debate, then that's what they were having.

Dom was offended that his sister didn't believe in heaven, which came as a surprise to me, as we're not raising them heathen any more than we're raising them god fearing. She seems to have come to her own conclusion on the matter. (Neither of them spotted my 'Go Girl!' air punch from the dining room.)

Anyway, the argument went something like this;

"But Meg, heaven is real! It's where you go when you die."

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is."

"No it is NOT!"

"YES IT IS!"

...cut three minutes of tit for tat...

Finally Dom came in with his killer argument for the existence of the afterlife;

"Heaven is pink and has nuts and everything."

"Eh?"

"I know it is, 'cos horses are brown and not green and I've seen horses, so I know. "

I'm feeling rather proud of Dom's nascent logic skills at this point, though what green horses had to to with heaven escaped me.

"Aaaand, I've seen heaven on TV - it's pink and cloudy with nuts. So heaven is real! HA!"

And so I realise that Dom's heaven is from Ice Age 2 where the squirrel dies and goes to his special nutty nirvana in the sky...
Bless 'im.

Out of the mouths of babes

Standing in the school yard this morning Dom asks "Daddy, can we get some cock porn tonight?"

"Ahem, yes I suppose we could pop into Blockbusters on the way home." I replied.

Sniggers and the odd gasp...

Spooner, you have a lot to answer for.

Breaking the Ice

The nearby lake has completely frozen over, much to the delight of our children who, given the opportunity, would scarper right to the middle. Not on yer nelly...


Blogging has now recommenced.

Charlatan

My son whispers truths to himself. Like any inquisitive four year old, he drills down to them with relentless questioning. When he receives a satisfactory answer, he whispers it back to himself, enunciating each syllable with breathy, awestruck precision.

Like jelly bears, he rolls ideas around in his mouth before he swallows and makes them part of himself. I've not heard another child do it. Certainly not as often as he does anyway.

Perhaps it's a genetic trait, as I do the same, just not aloud. Like Meg, who's recently discovered the delights of reading inside her head, I repeat these ear worms internally. Mostly because they're pretty.

"That's the price you pay" and "What else is the seat of your pants for?" are currently worming themselves around the mulch of my cranium. They got in via someone I consider to be a genius and with whom I rely on for sage advice. That, and the West Highlands accent means he could tell me to fuck off and I'd repeat it in my head for hours afterward, enjoying the angles.

See, I'm a keeper of wee small wisdoms. A plagiariser, a hoarder and repeater of the soundbite. I keep these shiny things in jars to use in appropriate situations.

"As flat as a witches tit" is another one.

Sometimes this is confused with wisdom. Which may be why I've been elevated to a relatively lofty position at work, close to the limit of my incompetence. The ability to "say the right thing" and "have a way with words" can take you some distance in this world, despite just being a little kid with sweeties stuck in your mouth.

There's an advert on the telly that Dom always repeats the closing lines of;

"Spend a little, live a lot."

Wise words indeed...

Watershed

Tomorrow morning Dominic will enter full time education. He'll take his first faltering steps upon the machine's conveyor belt. I've every confidence that he'll find his balance and prevail. When Meg went full time, we worried (needlessly), that her timid personality would get the better of her. Not so with Dom. Quite the opposite. The establishment should prepare itself for the onslaught that is our youngest progeny.

This marks a watershed moment for Miche & I. You see, for the past six years my wife has devoted herself entirely to our young. She gave up her work and all that goes with it. No small sacrifice.

I'd like to say that my grotesque salary has kept the wolves from the door during these single salary years. But that would be a lie. Miche's formidable management skills, self-discipline and relentless subjugation of her husband's excesses have left us debt free. Mortgage notwithstanding.

Later this month, Miche will receive her first salary payment in her new part time job. It will be met with a sigh of relief, a loosening of belts and a fucking good bottle of wine. I'm looking forward to testing the theory that a cheap bottle of Chablis is as good as an expensive one.

Utterly meaningless

This is Dominic at seven months. He was born with that look on his face. I have countless photos, just like this one of him looking with wonderment at his bright new world.

If he typed he would have overused exclamation marks.

He's a boy of course, albeit an older one now, so naturally his life is still lived at full tilt. I've not seen this expression however, since sometime into his second year.

A good move for his dating prospects I suspect.

Despite having no recollection of being a baby, it's natural to transfer your thoughts onto your pre-linguistic children. As such, I imagine that Dom spent his first year shouting "Wow!!!! Would you look at that! Amaaazing!!!"

The unfortunate truth is that we, post one-year-olds, have little chance of re-capturing those purely experiential moments that the infant takes for granted.

We're lost in meaning.

The world is as it is to the infant - with all its colours, oudours and textures. It's unpolluted with any inference or meaning. Blue is simply the qualia blue; not sadness, the colour of the Conservative Party or a shit boy band. It just is.

Despite the obvious advantages to understanding meaning, we expend so much energy trying to recover this pre-state. Fuck how we try... We get stoned, climb hills, run for miles, have sex, make music, cuddle, cry and laugh. Well I do, at least (though not all at the same time).

Some of us may pray, meditate or even speak in tongues.

All of which are vain attempts to re-connect with the animal within us - that pure, meaningless understanding of the universe that will not be given context, let alone be described.

So when you hear talk of the ineffable or the infallible, or the indescribable beauty of love then this is what it means;

That I've come home from a rare night out at the pub and have blogged whilst inebriated as my wife sleeps.

In summation;

Drink it all up. Gulp it down in one great, wide eyed stare.

A four year old's philosophy

Never, ever stand still

Washing mouths out

The linguistic development of my littlest continues apace. Tonight, as I stole a potato from his dinner plate, he pointed his left index finger at me, scowled and shouted “Now Daddy, Bugger Off!”

Despite the shock, I had to hide my face behind my hands as I couldn’t help but laugh. Perhaps my heaving shoulders belied another emotion, because Dom then said “I’m sorry Daddy, don’t cry, I won’t say it again.”

Job done.

I’m not sure where he got it from, but something about his delivery reminded me of a certain grandparent, who shall remain nameless…

We’re pretty good at not cussing in front of the little ones, ever since Meg, perhaps a bit younger than Dom is now, muttered “Oh, for fuck sake” under her breath after she dropped her baby doll.

My omnipotent son

Walking to school with Dominic this morning he asks "Daddy, do you know everything?"

"Well Dom", I told him "I know a little about a lot of things and a lot about one or two. The older I get mind, the more I discover things that I know next to nothing about."

"That's because you're not four daddy," he said "you have to be four to know everything."

The heat isn't on

Our boiler has ground to a halt. If there's a time for it to die I suppose, then it's the middle of summer. It's leaking all over the floor, bless it. Apparently the heat transfer unit (read expensive) has corroded, which in itself is replaceable. The problem is, it's been corroding long before the leaky symptom started and has made an irreparable mess of its innards. The dirty little git. So we must fork out £1,200 to have the whole damned boiler replaced.

Bastards.

To cheer me up, I took the kids & dog for a romp in the fields after school. We counted species - 20 cows, 7 Mallard Ducks, 3 posh, plump Pigeons, 2 Cats and an inquisitive Hedgehog which rather than curl up, had a sniff of my cellphone as we took its picture.


After that Meg & I went for our first bike ride together. You see, in this past week, Meg has relinquished her stabilisers and is now a seasoned pro - up and down kerbs like I don't know what. I swear there was a lump in my throat as we rode to the park and back, whilst Meg chatted away as if riding her bike was effortless.

Our money comes & goes. From time to time it annoys me. Yet no amount of it could make me as happy as the time that comes free of charge with my family.

As I was too busy keeping up with my cycling daughter to take her photo, here's one of her making a flotsam city on the beach this weekend.

Two & Two

Apparently he has my mouth.

Even superheros need groceries

Being Daddy

I've all sorts of posts in my head right now. Some of them are simple, some of them profound. One or two may be both.

For the time being though, I'm just being Dad.

A fifty pence - twenty pence moment

Earlier this evening Dominic & I were reading a rather good human anatomy flip book. We'd just got to the brain bit when we heard a blood curdling scream from upstairs. We bolted up them, two at a time, to discover Miche & Meg on top of a bed, clutching each other in terror.


This beast was hounding the poor pair - lurking on the carpet and taunting them. Waggling his mandibles. The bastard.

Of course, being the man, I'm the spider catcherer of the household. I kind of like the wee blighters to be honest. I catch them between my palms. Sometimes I even peek at them.

This one was a monster however. I'll admit to a fifty pence - twenty pence moment, if you catch my drift. It took all my effort, for the benefit of the kids of course, to kneel down and say "Cool! Come on everyone, lets look at him."

There was no fucking way I was touching him! Besides, he was a house spider and autumn is a particularly bad time for them.You see, they come out of their crannies to find a mate.

As this bull was huge and horny, I had no desire to have him hump my thumb like a dog with his nadgers still intact, thankyouverymuch.

You'll note that I resorted to the old glass & birthday card trick.

Blown off our feet

The kids and I have been at a country fair today whilst Miche was working. The sprogs enjoyed it, though it was the usual "locally produced beef" kind of affair. We had a bit of excitement before lunch however, when Meg spotted a helicopter flying towards us.

"Dad! Look, it's coming here!"

It certainly was, the thing flew above the manor house and landed on the lawn right behind it. Meg and I chased after Dom when he shot off to see it close up. As we pursued him, we passed three paramedics running in the opposite direction. I realised it was an air ambulance.

By the time we'd arrived at the machine, the rotors had stopped turning and the pilot was stood nonchalantly at its side. Dom, being Dom ran right up to him.

"Man? Are you the flyer?" He asked, bold as brass.

"Yes I am, and what's your name?" he replied. I noted he had a posh, Scottish Highland accent.

"Dominic" he was told by my son as he started to inspect the wheels.

The pilot was obviously a father himself as he was a natural with my son. He took him round his helicopter and showed him all the controls. Dom quivered with excitement and for once was speechless.

We got to chatting as Meg held my hand, somewhat overawed by the whole thing. I'll admit to being awed by him myself. He was about my age, 6 foot or so, supremely fit, tanned, a chiseled chin and two day stubble.

Honestly, I would 'ave. I really would. And I'm straight...

The old grannies that had gathered around him obviously felt the same.

His radio buzzed, so he went off to the side to confer with his medical colleagues. When he returned he told me that they'd been called for a suspected heart attack. As we were in the middle of nowhere, the only practical way of getting someone in VF to hospital in time is by air.

"Looks like the emergency's over," he said "he'll be OK."

That was the last I heard from him, as the grannies had crowded me and the kids out.

We hung around until he fired up his 'copter, spun it around no more than 10 feet from the ground and sped off over our heads. I was quite moist, I must say.

We were unprepared for this, as none of us have been this close to a flying helicopter before. Me, being me, had my eye in the viewfinder as he roared past.

We were all, quite literally blown off our feet.

"Fuck me!" I let slip as I was shoved to the grass. Oops...

Meg was fine, as she was already sat down. Dom on the other hand, had been blown yards down the hill.

I caught him in my arms as he ran towards me in tears.

"Are you OK Dom?"

"Yeah!" he shouted, "That was brill."

The little lad was crying and laughing at the same time.

Bless 'im.

The last embers of summer

Not to be too smug about it, but I'm left with a rosy glow from today. My legs are nicely relaxed as I had my first run in a fortnight early this morning. The sun was out and the ground dry so seven miles went by in a flash.

The weather was unseasonably good, frankly it was unnerving. If it wasn't for the orange leaves falling off the trees, I'd have sworn it was mid June today. If this is global warming, then perhaps I should be all for it instead.

So, to make the most of it, we packed a picnic and set out for the day;

to collect acorns,


to hunt fungi,


to entrap snails for them to be our pets,

to paddle in the river,


only to become utterly knackered,


Expect next week to be quiet, as I've a number of deadlines that have been woefully ignored. I'll be spending each evening frantically trying to catch up...

Dad Blogging

In the absence of motherly direction our Saturday took on a decidedly masculine aroma;

Stones thrown in the river, just before a Kingfisher flew past in an iridescent flash of blue.

Rides on a minature steam train.


Heads under the bonnet of an Austin Healey.


Awed by the power of steam and water.


Captivated by the greased precision of Victorian Engineering.


Captivated enough to spontaneously narrate the video of the antique water pumping station as we ripped it to the PC. Richard Attenborough eat your heart out...

On being boys

"Shit!" I barked after being woken by Dom breaking wind on my arm.

"Shit!" He repeated with glee.

"Bollocks, Dom that's a naughty word. We shouldn't have said that."

"Bolloxs!"

It could have gone on for a while.

We were supposed to be back from the tip having emptied the garage of its detritus and busy preparing tea for the women. They've been out at a kids party all afternoon.

I figured we could get some boy stuff done before our chores, so I hoovered out the car whilst Dom pretended to be a racing driver. We then watched the rugby for a bit. I obliged when Dom asked for some boyporn on the telly and settled us down with kettle chips and milk.

Twenty minutes ago we woke up.

Shit.

Emergency at Wallington

Racing from the gargoyles to the big tree is a good way of wearing out your kids on a Sunday afternoon.

Wallington is a great place to be doing this. Its grounds are a gratuitous monument to the wealth of the few and the subjugation of the rest. How ironic then, that they've become a glorified playground for working families.

The house is a different matter. Built in 1688 for Sir William Blackett, it's stuffed full of pre raphaelite paintings and heirlooms. The National Trust guards these contents with old women. Recruited for their stern, pinched faces and general mistrust of others, they lurk in the corner of each room, ready to pounce on anyone who dare make a noise or god forbid, touch anything. Though the website says different, children are not made to feel welcome.

I like to take mine in sometimes, just to piss them off.

My hand was forced yesterday, when Dom stopped mid-sprint and shouted "I Need a Poo!" Lovely. Now, when Dominic says this, he means it. Not a boy to forward plan, he generally waits until turtle head before announcing these needs to the world.

We had three options;

1) Run to the public toilets some 500 yards away,
2) Drop pants and deposit toilet torpedo on a gargoyle, or
3) Ask the receptionist hag in the house if there was one to be used.

I opted for option 3. It is after all, a big house.

"Is there a toilet we could use?" I ask her politely.

"Yes", she nipped "but only in emergencies."

Now, I wasn't sure whether my child being in desperate need of a shite constituted an emergency. But in a brief moment of absurdity, I thought she meant the toilet was only to be used in an emergency;

"DORIS! The house is on fire!"


"Right, raise the alarm and start the evacuation. And Sue, unlock the emergency toilet!"

Dom woke me from my daydream.

"Dad! I need a Poo NOW!" Bless him, he was hopping from foot to foot.

Grudgingly (and I swear it was), she picked up her walkie talkie and barked "Escort required for toilet, urgently."

Thankfully one came quickly. Her twin sister, it appeared. Though older and more wizened.

"Follow me." She commanded.

As we were about to oblige, 1st Hag barked,

"Erm, excuse me! I need to see your National Trust card before you can enter the house."

And do you know what? I apologised. "Sorry, yes of course." I said as I fumbled in my wallet for it.

"Very well."

We were discharged from her presence, and were walking off behind Hag 2 when again she shouts,

"Erm, excuse me sir!"

Now, I'm getting irked. "Yes?"

"Bags are not permitted in the house sir, you will have to leave it here"

I tossed it at her.

"You need a ticket, so that I can retrieve it." She was obviously fretting that her duties weren't being discharged perfectly.

"Mrs," I say "There's only three bags behind you. We'll remember which one's mine."

"DADDY, I WANT A POO!"

There was no stopping her, she shoved a ticket into my hand as we were rushing off. It was number 24 incidentally.

Finally, Hag 2 led us to the secret emergency toilets. We had the choice of the standard or disabled variety. I chose the disabled. It wasn't exactly setting fire to the Houses of Parliament, but it was a protest nonetheless. I'm sure I heard her tut as we went in.

Dom launched his bum rocket with a smile of relief on his face.

Yesterday I was in the company of children. Today I am not. So I say to you Hags, you pair of sad desperate bints, why don't you just Fuck Off.