The holiday was well thought through, well planned and well prepared. We arrived nice and early with everything we needed and were ready to start the week with a picnic followed by a swim. What could go wrong?
I’ve just got back from a really nice week away. We were all ready for it, stresses at work for us parents and standard end of term tiredness for the kids had stacked up so some quality time together sounded fantastic. We had thought it through and decided we needed something that would not be ruined by the weather, last years camping trip had been such a disaster that we were taking no risks. We wanted something a bit active as both the boys get bored easily and to be fair I’m not a beech man either for a whole week anyway.
And so just over a week ago, we arrived at Center Parcs in Sherwood Forest. I’ve always resisted going to this specific address because it’s so close to Newark. I went to School in Newark and so always felt that going there on holiday would just be too weird. With these feelings put aside we decided to go for it. The sun was shining and we were less than an hour behind schedule on arrival. The queue to check in was short and in no time we were parked up and heading off to investigate.
For any one not knowing how Center Parcs works, here’s the brief. Set in forest locations the holiday village is nestled into the trees with apparent thought and care for maintaining the rest of the forest. The Villas are hidden away and pleasantly private. Then you get a ‘village square’ where shops, restaurants and things are. A big sub tropical swimming pool with slides and hot tubs and things also sit here. Then you have the Sports centre or ‘Jardin de sports’ where you can do anything from 10 pin bowling to Badminton, Climbing Walls, Squash or any number of other things. Further round the park there is Golf, nature centres, Tennis and an adventure centre for tree top fun etc. Apart from the pool, lakeside beech and the play areas ( plenty of those) absolutely nothing is free and highly overpriced but fun.
You are encouraged to arrive before you can get in your villa and stay after checking out because you can use the facilities to extend your holiday; an option we took gladly. Once in your villa you unpack the car and then take it back to the car park, for the rest of your stay you are on foot or bike and apart from on changeover days you really do get some peace and quiet away from any traffic noise.
We parked up and headed off with a picnic. We found a lovely play park and started eating, the kids could eat and play, the sun shined – fantastic. All we had to do was finish the picnic, play for a while then Jo would go to the villa at three with the boys whilst I fetched the car, no worries. At this park though was a swing. Not a normal swing but a contraption that you bounce and swing on at the same time. Daniel loved it and was laughing head off just at the point when his stupid Dad nearly knocked it off for him. I swung him up too high straight into a log thing coming the other way. Instantly I froze, it really was a bad hit. Blood squirted out and Daniel screamed. Quick as a flash I had him down and stopped the bleeding, years of first aid kicking in on auto, but I was shaking. We had to dash to the handy and excellent medical centre where the nurse expertly cleaned him up and took charge. It was no where near as bad as I’d imagined though Dan was shook up enough to feint bless him. Soon he was patched up with Steri-strips and we were packed off & let in the villa early ( result ). There would be no swimming today.
To cut the story short, Dan is fine and was up and about with full steam the next morning at about 5 excited about his first proper day on the Holiday. The rest of the holiday was amazing. I still haven’t forgiven myself though – it was too much of a shock, I nearly wiped him out and it was totally my fault for trying to impress with how high I could swing him. Even now as I write I’m shaking remembering seeing it in slow motion. Lesson learned and for sure it didn’t stop anyone enjoying themselves in the end. Roll on next year …
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The Royal Marine
The Marine looked on through tearful blood filled eyes at the incredulous devastation about him; his head still pounding the drumbeat of a million lost hearts. The fierce sun burning his skin helped to cover the emotions that being here on Christmas Day would otherwise bring. As this shaken hero stared he began to wonder if suggesting a game of murder ball during the truce had really been such a good idea…
Christmas in the Bahamas, It’s just not the same. Johnny had said as much to his Missus when she had suggested it, but as usual he’d gone unheard. Johnny ‘Johnno’ Johnson often went unheard at home and he was used to it now. Johnny didn’t mind, he had a good life in the Royal Marine’s needlework corps (the Sew-Sews as they were affectionately called). He had all the needles and thread that he could ever hope for and the passion he felt about knowing that the troupes were wearing well darned socks out there on the frontline thanks to him, kept him happily working well in to the night.
So when his attempt at saying he’d rather stay home for Christmas had gone unheeded it hadn’t really bothered him, he loved his wife and was more than prepared to compromise for her. On arrival it had come as a shock to discover that the hotel was a simmering pot of tension.
Due to a lack of communication between travel firms both the Organic Farmers Association and the Chemical Pestilence Producers Association were having their conferences in the same place. The conference wasn’t for a few days and things had become very nasty. Members of the CPPA had noticed that the OFA’s conference room was noticeably bigger than theirs. Members of the OFA had noticed that the CPPA’s room was closer to the dining hall giving them first shout at the buffet.
Johhny and his wife had tried to keep out of it but by Christmas eve had been forced to take sides with the CPPA after an OFA member had said that the dyes used in Forces Khaki trousers was not sustainable or fair trade. On the stroke of midnight, just as Johnny was pouting for a quick kiss a rogue firework started the fight. It had come in from out of the hotel grounds, and landed near the OFA’s sun loungers setting them alight. The OFA immediately assumed it was a CPPA attack and rallied by throwing the CPPA’s ping pong table in the pool.
This went on through the night and next morning. Johnny had been press ganged into catering service, running back and forth between the front lines and the carefully segregated buffet table. As the afternoon sun set in things had began to calm. Then it happened. No one knew where it had come from but Silent Night could easily be heard. Someone was singing (probably Taffy Jones the chemist). In no time at all every one was singing. The feeling was amazing, everyone was smiling, some were crying.
Out of nowhere Johnny had an idea, he picked up a rugby ball that was lying in the debris and jumped out into no man’s land – or the entertainments arena as it had formerly been known. No one tried to stop him but many held their breath. “Come on everyone – let’s have a game !” Johnny’s excited cries shook everyone. Finally he was being heard; finally people were actually listening to him. “It’s Christmas, we have to forget this nonsense and move on, we must forgive each other and learn to live with each other. There has to be a place where organic and non organic produce can be sold side by side!” it had gone quiet but now some murmurs could be heard. People were agreeing, they could see the sense in what he was saying. Johnny Johnson stood proud, he’d never felt so strong, so powerful. This was sadly where it started to go wrong. Drunk with the power he jumped on a table as the last of the crowds had stood up and joined him in the middle. “OK CPPA on that side OFA on this side, All you have to do is get the ball across your opponents line , OK that’s al the rules – good luck!” He threw the ball into the air and the place erupted. The noise deafened him as his table was overturned. The crush went on for an hour. Johnny managed to crawl to the sides, but he was no longer being listened too. No one could hear his desperate shouts to stop. No one cared.
The dust settled and no one was moving except one small waiter who had had the unfortunate idea of bringing a plate of oranges in for half time. He’d lost his tray but the look of determination on his face as he planted the ball over the CPPA’s line was clear to see. This victory was as important for him as it had been for the others.
Johnny Cried for a while and then went up to his room for a shower. He tried telling his wife what had happened but she didn’t listen, she just moaned about not being able to eat the salad because it had been washed in the local water. Things were already going back to normal, the metaphorical Poppies were already growing.
Christmas in the Bahamas, It’s just not the same. Johnny had said as much to his Missus when she had suggested it, but as usual he’d gone unheard. Johnny ‘Johnno’ Johnson often went unheard at home and he was used to it now. Johnny didn’t mind, he had a good life in the Royal Marine’s needlework corps (the Sew-Sews as they were affectionately called). He had all the needles and thread that he could ever hope for and the passion he felt about knowing that the troupes were wearing well darned socks out there on the frontline thanks to him, kept him happily working well in to the night.
So when his attempt at saying he’d rather stay home for Christmas had gone unheeded it hadn’t really bothered him, he loved his wife and was more than prepared to compromise for her. On arrival it had come as a shock to discover that the hotel was a simmering pot of tension.
Due to a lack of communication between travel firms both the Organic Farmers Association and the Chemical Pestilence Producers Association were having their conferences in the same place. The conference wasn’t for a few days and things had become very nasty. Members of the CPPA had noticed that the OFA’s conference room was noticeably bigger than theirs. Members of the OFA had noticed that the CPPA’s room was closer to the dining hall giving them first shout at the buffet.
Johhny and his wife had tried to keep out of it but by Christmas eve had been forced to take sides with the CPPA after an OFA member had said that the dyes used in Forces Khaki trousers was not sustainable or fair trade. On the stroke of midnight, just as Johnny was pouting for a quick kiss a rogue firework started the fight. It had come in from out of the hotel grounds, and landed near the OFA’s sun loungers setting them alight. The OFA immediately assumed it was a CPPA attack and rallied by throwing the CPPA’s ping pong table in the pool.
This went on through the night and next morning. Johnny had been press ganged into catering service, running back and forth between the front lines and the carefully segregated buffet table. As the afternoon sun set in things had began to calm. Then it happened. No one knew where it had come from but Silent Night could easily be heard. Someone was singing (probably Taffy Jones the chemist). In no time at all every one was singing. The feeling was amazing, everyone was smiling, some were crying.
Out of nowhere Johnny had an idea, he picked up a rugby ball that was lying in the debris and jumped out into no man’s land – or the entertainments arena as it had formerly been known. No one tried to stop him but many held their breath. “Come on everyone – let’s have a game !” Johnny’s excited cries shook everyone. Finally he was being heard; finally people were actually listening to him. “It’s Christmas, we have to forget this nonsense and move on, we must forgive each other and learn to live with each other. There has to be a place where organic and non organic produce can be sold side by side!” it had gone quiet but now some murmurs could be heard. People were agreeing, they could see the sense in what he was saying. Johnny Johnson stood proud, he’d never felt so strong, so powerful. This was sadly where it started to go wrong. Drunk with the power he jumped on a table as the last of the crowds had stood up and joined him in the middle. “OK CPPA on that side OFA on this side, All you have to do is get the ball across your opponents line , OK that’s al the rules – good luck!” He threw the ball into the air and the place erupted. The noise deafened him as his table was overturned. The crush went on for an hour. Johnny managed to crawl to the sides, but he was no longer being listened too. No one could hear his desperate shouts to stop. No one cared.
The dust settled and no one was moving except one small waiter who had had the unfortunate idea of bringing a plate of oranges in for half time. He’d lost his tray but the look of determination on his face as he planted the ball over the CPPA’s line was clear to see. This victory was as important for him as it had been for the others.
Johnny Cried for a while and then went up to his room for a shower. He tried telling his wife what had happened but she didn’t listen, she just moaned about not being able to eat the salad because it had been washed in the local water. Things were already going back to normal, the metaphorical Poppies were already growing.
Bertie Bassett
I’ve just discovered that it’s impossible to write anything when Bertie Bassett is in the house. That little rascal has a lot to answer for.
I foolishly opened the packet while my laptop kicked into life. I thought that I could sit here and write something deep about the state of the world whilst occasionally dipping into the Mr. Bassett’s liquorice heaven. No doubt I’d munch my way through 4 or 5 sweets before diligently wrapping the bag back up and saving them for another day or for the rest of the family. No doubt I’d have written 3 or 4 pages of meaningful text that would grip the hearts of the millions of potential readers so tightly that Mr. Potter’s wizardly exploits would be forgotten about completely.
Sadly it does not appear to have gone that way. Every time my typing finger made it’s solitary way towards the keyboard it veered off towards the pack instead. Time and time I’ve intended to write the starting line of an epic novel, probably something like, “The Marine looked on through tearful blood filled eyes at the incredulous devastation about him; his head still pounding the drumbeat of a million lost hearts. The fierce sun burning his skin helped to cover the emotions that being here on Christmas Day would otherwise bring. As this shaken hero stared he began to wonder if suggesting a game of murder ball during the truce had really been such a good idea...”
Instead of writing my way into WH Smiths I’ve sat here and eaten the whole packet. I never even found a Bertie! And now the sugar has completely stunted my creativity. Instead of changing the world I’ve just stopped Portsmouth, Cosham & Oldbury from ever looking in again due to Liquorice envy!
Never mind, I’ll start again in a few minutes and everything will be fine… Is that a pack of Revels I see on the Retail Services Manager’s trolley?
I foolishly opened the packet while my laptop kicked into life. I thought that I could sit here and write something deep about the state of the world whilst occasionally dipping into the Mr. Bassett’s liquorice heaven. No doubt I’d munch my way through 4 or 5 sweets before diligently wrapping the bag back up and saving them for another day or for the rest of the family. No doubt I’d have written 3 or 4 pages of meaningful text that would grip the hearts of the millions of potential readers so tightly that Mr. Potter’s wizardly exploits would be forgotten about completely.
Sadly it does not appear to have gone that way. Every time my typing finger made it’s solitary way towards the keyboard it veered off towards the pack instead. Time and time I’ve intended to write the starting line of an epic novel, probably something like, “The Marine looked on through tearful blood filled eyes at the incredulous devastation about him; his head still pounding the drumbeat of a million lost hearts. The fierce sun burning his skin helped to cover the emotions that being here on Christmas Day would otherwise bring. As this shaken hero stared he began to wonder if suggesting a game of murder ball during the truce had really been such a good idea...”
Instead of writing my way into WH Smiths I’ve sat here and eaten the whole packet. I never even found a Bertie! And now the sugar has completely stunted my creativity. Instead of changing the world I’ve just stopped Portsmouth, Cosham & Oldbury from ever looking in again due to Liquorice envy!
Never mind, I’ll start again in a few minutes and everything will be fine… Is that a pack of Revels I see on the Retail Services Manager’s trolley?
A question for parents
Here is a question for parents. It’s something that’s been troubling me for a while and one that I’d really like to understand. There are so many aspects to parenting that you have to make up as you go along and they are so easy to get wrong. There are websites and leaflets and books that help you out with so many issues, but for some things you have to find your own way. One such problem is starting to occupy my mind now and having surfed the web in vein for an answer I’m now going to ask the question here. What is the right age to start weaning your kids off trains?
All kids love trains and as a father I have spent many an hour exploiting this by standing them in sight of a train and getting them to wave. I’ve been reminded of this today as I’m travelling to Birmingham to work today and this means that we have gone through Coventry. We lived near Coventry for a few years when our youngest boy was born. It was a decent place and we had a good time, but village life was not for me and for career reasons as well as getting closer to my wife’s family we decided to move a couple of years ago.
Coventry station is next to a retail park and so on many occasions Jo would head into the shops while me and the boys stood watching the trains. They loved it and when the kids are happy, the parents are happy so all was well. Add Thomas Tank Engine into the mix, steam days and narrow gauge railways at parks and you wind up with a mild train obsession coming on. This is clearly no issue, there’s absolutely no problem with young kids liking trains. When should it turn though? When does it change from boyhood fun to platform stalking? I’m worried that if I encourage it for too long I could create a flask bearing number taker. I don’t even know where you buy Cagoules so my boys would wind up getting derided by the hard core spotters for not having the right kit on. That’s got to be a real low hasn’t it? Train spotters taking the mick out of your kids for not being trendy.
It’s no good I’m not taking chances. My youngest is now four so I’m going to start weaning him now. I can’t stand the idea of turning my kids into complete geeks. No more real trains. From now on he can stay up in the attic with me and when he’s a bit older I’ll let him actually drive my full scale Hornby classic Brighton to London line instead of just watching.
All kids love trains and as a father I have spent many an hour exploiting this by standing them in sight of a train and getting them to wave. I’ve been reminded of this today as I’m travelling to Birmingham to work today and this means that we have gone through Coventry. We lived near Coventry for a few years when our youngest boy was born. It was a decent place and we had a good time, but village life was not for me and for career reasons as well as getting closer to my wife’s family we decided to move a couple of years ago.
Coventry station is next to a retail park and so on many occasions Jo would head into the shops while me and the boys stood watching the trains. They loved it and when the kids are happy, the parents are happy so all was well. Add Thomas Tank Engine into the mix, steam days and narrow gauge railways at parks and you wind up with a mild train obsession coming on. This is clearly no issue, there’s absolutely no problem with young kids liking trains. When should it turn though? When does it change from boyhood fun to platform stalking? I’m worried that if I encourage it for too long I could create a flask bearing number taker. I don’t even know where you buy Cagoules so my boys would wind up getting derided by the hard core spotters for not having the right kit on. That’s got to be a real low hasn’t it? Train spotters taking the mick out of your kids for not being trendy.
It’s no good I’m not taking chances. My youngest is now four so I’m going to start weaning him now. I can’t stand the idea of turning my kids into complete geeks. No more real trains. From now on he can stay up in the attic with me and when he’s a bit older I’ll let him actually drive my full scale Hornby classic Brighton to London line instead of just watching.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Retail Services Manager
I’ve just discovered that my train’s ‘Retail Services Manager’ is about to come through the train with a trolley. Apparently she has a good selection of hot and cold drinks as well as fruit, crisps and sandwiches.
I love these job names that people get to create an image of something that isn’t even close to being real. Retail Services Manager! What on Earth is that supposed to mean. She’s bringing a trolley round on a train. I’d suggest she tries something more realistic like Chariot Roaming Apple Provider. Where do people come up with these daft job names, I just spent 10 minutes working out one just so that I could call it C.R.A.P. and I have to say it is pretty weak, very fitting for its name. There must be teams of very well paid people coming up with the real ones. Congratulations to the PR people that do this work because I don’t think it’s easy.
Sorry had a gap there while the Advanced Rail Supervising Emperor came through checking tickets. He is one of those that think a chirpy smile and witty banter will cheer up all the weary commuters. This is a nice thing I don’t dislike it, but there are those who can actually do it and those who say “Any one boarding at the Den of Iniquity that is Banbury show me your tickets please, come on don’t be shy!” And they say it twice in our carriage alone because no one laughed the first time, I assume he’s gone on to try it in all the rest of the carriages now.
Ok that’s all I can really say on this one because it’s early and I’ve run out of time after spending 15 minutes working on A.R.S.E. Can any one tell me any better job titles, real or made up that either don’t come close to describing the job or just have a funny mnemonic.
I love these job names that people get to create an image of something that isn’t even close to being real. Retail Services Manager! What on Earth is that supposed to mean. She’s bringing a trolley round on a train. I’d suggest she tries something more realistic like Chariot Roaming Apple Provider. Where do people come up with these daft job names, I just spent 10 minutes working out one just so that I could call it C.R.A.P. and I have to say it is pretty weak, very fitting for its name. There must be teams of very well paid people coming up with the real ones. Congratulations to the PR people that do this work because I don’t think it’s easy.
Sorry had a gap there while the Advanced Rail Supervising Emperor came through checking tickets. He is one of those that think a chirpy smile and witty banter will cheer up all the weary commuters. This is a nice thing I don’t dislike it, but there are those who can actually do it and those who say “Any one boarding at the Den of Iniquity that is Banbury show me your tickets please, come on don’t be shy!” And they say it twice in our carriage alone because no one laughed the first time, I assume he’s gone on to try it in all the rest of the carriages now.
Ok that’s all I can really say on this one because it’s early and I’ve run out of time after spending 15 minutes working on A.R.S.E. Can any one tell me any better job titles, real or made up that either don’t come close to describing the job or just have a funny mnemonic.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
taking babies shopping
Getting some serious merit points in when you have a baby is quite easy. There’s many simple ways to impress. The simplest of all is doing the shopping.
However don’t think that by sitting at the computer ordering a delivery is going to get you anywhere because it won’t and besides you’d be missing the idea. No, to get the points you have to do it the hard way. And that means loading up with the baby and all the paraphernalia that goes with it – changing bag, car seat, spare clothes for baby, spare clothes for you, emergency milk, emergency toys. It means loading up with any spare kids that are also loitering in the house and going directly to the shop after ensuring that the mum knows not to bother cleaning up the house as that can wait until tomorrow. Today the lady is to rest.
I say go directly to the shop but some extra points can be found by going to the park first with any of the extra kids that you may have. This keeps them happy and also gives the mum a little extra Jeremy Kyle time. Then go to Tescos.
This chore should not be taken lightly. It’s a great responsibility strapping a new born into a shopping trolley in a way that means he doesn’t have to hold the eggs and be safe when child number two decides he wants to push. But eventually you are set and here is where the good bit comes.
Shopping with a baby is great. There are very few hardened crones who can resist the sight of a little baby in a trolley. The sight of a ‘new’ dad pushing it turns them even further into mush. Every aisle brings a new smile of approval from the ladies. Every shelf hides a woman who can’t wait to come and make a fuss. I used to love popping out and doing the shopping and both my boys loved the attention too. Daniel especially used to milk his moment, gurgling away and smiling at anyone in a low cut top.
I remember one time in particular at the checkout in Harrow Tescos. I was packing the goods and out the corner of my eye Daniel spotted a nice blonde girl with impressive assets heading our way. I think he must have sensed that she hadn’t seen him and his eyes, having spotted a hefty looking snack, decided to tell his brain to take action. His arm jutted out and literally stopped her in her tracks. Blonde girl stopped, bent over and cooed and smiled at Daniel and at me. This was great I was getting points at home whilst chatting to a very nice lady. Then she laughed and headed off. I didn’t like the laugh, it wasn’t a friendly follow me one at all. I looked in my hand and noticed the pack off women’s ten inch thick industrial strength pads that I was mid way through packing when she turned up and realised the small flaw in the whole idea. Never mind it was still fun.
Needless to say I still had to unpack the shopping on return home in order to fully achieve maximum points but hey ho. My wife got a rest, I got an eyeful and Daniel very nearly got a picnic, everyone’s a winner!
However don’t think that by sitting at the computer ordering a delivery is going to get you anywhere because it won’t and besides you’d be missing the idea. No, to get the points you have to do it the hard way. And that means loading up with the baby and all the paraphernalia that goes with it – changing bag, car seat, spare clothes for baby, spare clothes for you, emergency milk, emergency toys. It means loading up with any spare kids that are also loitering in the house and going directly to the shop after ensuring that the mum knows not to bother cleaning up the house as that can wait until tomorrow. Today the lady is to rest.
I say go directly to the shop but some extra points can be found by going to the park first with any of the extra kids that you may have. This keeps them happy and also gives the mum a little extra Jeremy Kyle time. Then go to Tescos.
This chore should not be taken lightly. It’s a great responsibility strapping a new born into a shopping trolley in a way that means he doesn’t have to hold the eggs and be safe when child number two decides he wants to push. But eventually you are set and here is where the good bit comes.
Shopping with a baby is great. There are very few hardened crones who can resist the sight of a little baby in a trolley. The sight of a ‘new’ dad pushing it turns them even further into mush. Every aisle brings a new smile of approval from the ladies. Every shelf hides a woman who can’t wait to come and make a fuss. I used to love popping out and doing the shopping and both my boys loved the attention too. Daniel especially used to milk his moment, gurgling away and smiling at anyone in a low cut top.
I remember one time in particular at the checkout in Harrow Tescos. I was packing the goods and out the corner of my eye Daniel spotted a nice blonde girl with impressive assets heading our way. I think he must have sensed that she hadn’t seen him and his eyes, having spotted a hefty looking snack, decided to tell his brain to take action. His arm jutted out and literally stopped her in her tracks. Blonde girl stopped, bent over and cooed and smiled at Daniel and at me. This was great I was getting points at home whilst chatting to a very nice lady. Then she laughed and headed off. I didn’t like the laugh, it wasn’t a friendly follow me one at all. I looked in my hand and noticed the pack off women’s ten inch thick industrial strength pads that I was mid way through packing when she turned up and realised the small flaw in the whole idea. Never mind it was still fun.
Needless to say I still had to unpack the shopping on return home in order to fully achieve maximum points but hey ho. My wife got a rest, I got an eyeful and Daniel very nearly got a picnic, everyone’s a winner!
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
having a baby
Having a baby is an amazing experience. Having a baby is a joyous experience. I just don’t see why the Mum has to get all the glory.
I’ve sat through two births and it’s always the same; everyone jumping about fussing over the mum. I sat there gasping for a cup of tea for 2 hours once until I managed to flag down a passing midwife carrying a cup into the staff break room and grabbed it off her. Where was the smile and the encouraging pat of the hand then? All I got was a face of thunder and massive TUT!
The first time was the scariest, we had no idea what was going on as all first timers don’t, and so were completely at the whim of the midwives. Sadly we were at a seriously under performing hospital with some quite scary staff so their whim was perhaps not the best to be under.
After nearly a week of listening to my wife complain of a mild tummy ache which she expected everyone to jump up and down about – I have no idea why, it’s not as if it was all the time she just kept getting it now and again. At first I’d been sympathetic, rubbing her back and tweaking up the amps on the TENS machine until the streetlights outside had started to dim and the people of Harrow were beginning to complain. I’d fetched her drinks and patted her hair. I’d done the housework and made tea and only made one small mistake after completely misreading a signal from Jo about going to bed early. After the fourth day though It had started to get a bit dull. The tummy aches were a bit too regular now and the TENS machine had melted. We had been back to the Maternity Ward twice and after some muscle bound rugby playing woman, in a very disappointing nurses outfit, had groped about for a moment we were thrown out in disgrace told in no uncertain terms not to come back until the baby was coming.
How were we to know when that was? All we knew was that Jo had reached the point where every other word was un-printable and I could barley hear the T.V. over her saying them. I just thought it would be nice for her to get a bed at the hospital and give me a call when it’s ready, but no I was ignored on this yet again. One last phone call to the ward at 2 in the morning where Jo actually said something on the lines of eating all the midwives first born if they didn’t get this baby out of her tonight and reluctantly they let us in. I think we got there about 3.
We were shown through to a room and left there to stew. There was a jug of water but looking around I could only see one cup. I figured that I’d ask the midwife for a cup for Jo later. 15 minutes later a fiercely unimpressed lady came in huffing. She had instantly assumed we were messing her about and stopping her from getting on with her job. On went the glove and with a yawn, up went the hand. Just as quickly the hand came out and with a look of horror she cried “why’d you leave it so late?”
From there on in it was fast. Equipment came in and was strapped on and I never got chance to ask for a coffee even though it was the middle of the night and I was tired quite frankly. I stood by Jo’s head lovingly mopping her mildly perspiring lady brow as she smiled at me with a mixed look of gratitude and love for nearly a second before I realised that I was in the wrong room. Back in Jo’s room the scene was a bit different. Jo had become the Gruffalo and not very children’s book friendly one either. Meanwhile the midwife had become the bossiest women on the planet. My understanding of the fathers role being to stand at the clean end shouting encouragement was to be dispelled very fast.
“You hold her foot tight NOW” shouted the midwife. There I was stood holding a foot in exactly the worst view point possible – I could see everything! The nurse stood holding the other screaming and contradicting herself, “Don’t push, push, hold her leg here, and hold her leg there” Meanwhile Jo was blaming me for pretty much everything. I was close to cancelling the whole thing and going home to be honest. My lovely wife started making a point of kicking with the leg I was holding giving me a fairly nasty bruise on my side which smarted a bit. I raised this with the midwife but yet again there was no paracetomol available for the father – typical. At this point a second midwife sauntered in wearing what looked like a baseball catcher’s mitt. She stood at the end of the bed with her arms resting on the bar looking very much like this was exactly what she had in mind. I was quite worried by this. I’d seen the video of childbirth in the ante-natal classes, I knew it wasn’t like Alien as I’d previously believed but I couldn’t remember the baby coming out so fast that a ‘catcher’ was needed that far back. What was it they had seen on that scan? Was John Hurt going to come into this after all?
I was just about to mention that I thought I’d left my car lights on and ought to go check when there was a shout of triumph from midwife number 1. Looking down there was a face. A gorgeous, amazing face. In no time at all there was a baby boy. There was some other stuff too but frankly I decided to ignore that. I was numb, I was knackered and I was a father. My wife who had been lying on a bed throughout sucking the life out a loopy gas canister happily allowed everyone to heap praise on her. Jo never once offered to let me have a lie down or think to ask me if I was OK. I noticed this carry on throughout the day too, much to my annoyance. Never mind though, let the ladies have their day of attention I suppose. We men will just have to live with it, it’s a harsh fact but there you are. That baby is now 7 and worth every moment of the unrecognised hardship that I personally endured that week.
I’ve sat through two births and it’s always the same; everyone jumping about fussing over the mum. I sat there gasping for a cup of tea for 2 hours once until I managed to flag down a passing midwife carrying a cup into the staff break room and grabbed it off her. Where was the smile and the encouraging pat of the hand then? All I got was a face of thunder and massive TUT!
The first time was the scariest, we had no idea what was going on as all first timers don’t, and so were completely at the whim of the midwives. Sadly we were at a seriously under performing hospital with some quite scary staff so their whim was perhaps not the best to be under.
After nearly a week of listening to my wife complain of a mild tummy ache which she expected everyone to jump up and down about – I have no idea why, it’s not as if it was all the time she just kept getting it now and again. At first I’d been sympathetic, rubbing her back and tweaking up the amps on the TENS machine until the streetlights outside had started to dim and the people of Harrow were beginning to complain. I’d fetched her drinks and patted her hair. I’d done the housework and made tea and only made one small mistake after completely misreading a signal from Jo about going to bed early. After the fourth day though It had started to get a bit dull. The tummy aches were a bit too regular now and the TENS machine had melted. We had been back to the Maternity Ward twice and after some muscle bound rugby playing woman, in a very disappointing nurses outfit, had groped about for a moment we were thrown out in disgrace told in no uncertain terms not to come back until the baby was coming.
How were we to know when that was? All we knew was that Jo had reached the point where every other word was un-printable and I could barley hear the T.V. over her saying them. I just thought it would be nice for her to get a bed at the hospital and give me a call when it’s ready, but no I was ignored on this yet again. One last phone call to the ward at 2 in the morning where Jo actually said something on the lines of eating all the midwives first born if they didn’t get this baby out of her tonight and reluctantly they let us in. I think we got there about 3.
We were shown through to a room and left there to stew. There was a jug of water but looking around I could only see one cup. I figured that I’d ask the midwife for a cup for Jo later. 15 minutes later a fiercely unimpressed lady came in huffing. She had instantly assumed we were messing her about and stopping her from getting on with her job. On went the glove and with a yawn, up went the hand. Just as quickly the hand came out and with a look of horror she cried “why’d you leave it so late?”
From there on in it was fast. Equipment came in and was strapped on and I never got chance to ask for a coffee even though it was the middle of the night and I was tired quite frankly. I stood by Jo’s head lovingly mopping her mildly perspiring lady brow as she smiled at me with a mixed look of gratitude and love for nearly a second before I realised that I was in the wrong room. Back in Jo’s room the scene was a bit different. Jo had become the Gruffalo and not very children’s book friendly one either. Meanwhile the midwife had become the bossiest women on the planet. My understanding of the fathers role being to stand at the clean end shouting encouragement was to be dispelled very fast.
“You hold her foot tight NOW” shouted the midwife. There I was stood holding a foot in exactly the worst view point possible – I could see everything! The nurse stood holding the other screaming and contradicting herself, “Don’t push, push, hold her leg here, and hold her leg there” Meanwhile Jo was blaming me for pretty much everything. I was close to cancelling the whole thing and going home to be honest. My lovely wife started making a point of kicking with the leg I was holding giving me a fairly nasty bruise on my side which smarted a bit. I raised this with the midwife but yet again there was no paracetomol available for the father – typical. At this point a second midwife sauntered in wearing what looked like a baseball catcher’s mitt. She stood at the end of the bed with her arms resting on the bar looking very much like this was exactly what she had in mind. I was quite worried by this. I’d seen the video of childbirth in the ante-natal classes, I knew it wasn’t like Alien as I’d previously believed but I couldn’t remember the baby coming out so fast that a ‘catcher’ was needed that far back. What was it they had seen on that scan? Was John Hurt going to come into this after all?
I was just about to mention that I thought I’d left my car lights on and ought to go check when there was a shout of triumph from midwife number 1. Looking down there was a face. A gorgeous, amazing face. In no time at all there was a baby boy. There was some other stuff too but frankly I decided to ignore that. I was numb, I was knackered and I was a father. My wife who had been lying on a bed throughout sucking the life out a loopy gas canister happily allowed everyone to heap praise on her. Jo never once offered to let me have a lie down or think to ask me if I was OK. I noticed this carry on throughout the day too, much to my annoyance. Never mind though, let the ladies have their day of attention I suppose. We men will just have to live with it, it’s a harsh fact but there you are. That baby is now 7 and worth every moment of the unrecognised hardship that I personally endured that week.
Friday, July 10, 2009
losing your hair is not funny
Bobby looked pleased, everything was falling into place. Soon the world would be his. All he had to now is wait and then life was going to come knocking at his door once again.
Bobby’s hair had started receding in his mid twenties and by his mid thirties the whole top shelf had gone. Like a lot of men with this issue he’d tried allsorts of hair options. First of all he tried the comb-over. Bobby could never explain to people just how deeply he hated losing his hair. The loss of his head cover cut so far into his psyche that he never felt like he could look in the mirror or stand seeing a photo of himself; the person looking back at him from the photo was not the man that Bobby felt that he should be, this was not how Bobby saw himself at all. Letting his hair grow at the back meant he could comb it forward into what very nearly, but just not quite, looked like a young trendy style. The comb-over had worked right up until the night in Brannigans when a drunken girl had won a round of drinks from her friends after snogging him and pulling it back with her hands. Then Bobby decided to try the old favourite cover and shaved his head. Fooling the ladies into thinking that he had lots of hair, but his SAS Sergeant had told him that he had to keep it this short; Bobby rarely went into the detail that he worked for Sainsburys Account Services under his team leader – Daniel Sergeant. This worked just fine until people at work started complaining about the glare from the reflection of the fluorescent lights on his head.
Bobby was distraught. It was time for a new life, a new beginning. He got a new job, far away from his home in Sheffield. He picked up his tickets to Australia and packed up his things. After a couple of unexplained days in London, he was gone. He stepped off the plane in Sydney a new man. His head covered in a lovely flowing bush of hair. Yes the back and sides were a very slightly different shade the fixed colour of the hair on top but no matter – who would notice? His days at his new job for the Credit Insurers Agency were going to be full of fun now he was hairy. Bobby felt a million dollars, everywhere he went he drew attention. Men wanted to know all about his time with the SAS and always understood when Bobby explained how he could never say what missions he had been involved in. Women enjoyed his British accent. He could see they were talking about him too, whenever they were out he would see his friends pointing and laughing, clearly remembering one of his witty jokes about the Aussies being criminals. He’d notice girls admiring his hair – this was it, he was back in control of his head.
It was a very bad day indeed, in the height of an Australian summer, when Bobby was really struggling to cope. He was drenched in sweat and his head felt hotter than he could ever remember it feeling. Bobby felt really uncomfortable but could not put his finger on the problem. The guys he was with were suffering too. All of them were looking flushed and couldn’t sit still. The guys were coughing a great deal now and making all sorts of strange noises. Bobby assumed that this was how Aussies coped with the heat so he joined in, coughing and laughing. Then he noticed that they were all patting their heads, again our man joined in. The feeling of despair as he realised the glue had melted in the heat and his toupee had slid onto the back of his head was surpassed only by the realisation that his friends had been so quick to find it funny. Not one of his friends had been shocked or surprised, they all had known all along.
From that point on he was known as Bald Bobby and his depression returned fast. All his confidence was shot to pieces. Bobby thought long and hard about what to do next and that brings us back to the start. Several visits to a private surgery later and Bobby was back feeling optimistic. He’d quit his job and taken a long break before starting a new one in Wales. He stood and admired himself in the mirror. The tiny curly strands of hair that had started to grow on top of his head looked fantastic. Sure they looked a little like armpit hair right now and sure they were a little more spread out than he hoped but there was still two weeks yet. Bobby still had a fortnight until his job started at Torchwood. He wasn’t too sure about this particular job as he didn’t think it looked very exciting, but the Captain had sounded jolly enough on the phone. Yes the future was bright, and with another new start and another new head of hair everything was going to work out this time …
Authors note:- this story is entirely based on a true story.
Bobby’s name and almost all of the facts have been made up to protect the innocent.
Bobby’s hair had started receding in his mid twenties and by his mid thirties the whole top shelf had gone. Like a lot of men with this issue he’d tried allsorts of hair options. First of all he tried the comb-over. Bobby could never explain to people just how deeply he hated losing his hair. The loss of his head cover cut so far into his psyche that he never felt like he could look in the mirror or stand seeing a photo of himself; the person looking back at him from the photo was not the man that Bobby felt that he should be, this was not how Bobby saw himself at all. Letting his hair grow at the back meant he could comb it forward into what very nearly, but just not quite, looked like a young trendy style. The comb-over had worked right up until the night in Brannigans when a drunken girl had won a round of drinks from her friends after snogging him and pulling it back with her hands. Then Bobby decided to try the old favourite cover and shaved his head. Fooling the ladies into thinking that he had lots of hair, but his SAS Sergeant had told him that he had to keep it this short; Bobby rarely went into the detail that he worked for Sainsburys Account Services under his team leader – Daniel Sergeant. This worked just fine until people at work started complaining about the glare from the reflection of the fluorescent lights on his head.
Bobby was distraught. It was time for a new life, a new beginning. He got a new job, far away from his home in Sheffield. He picked up his tickets to Australia and packed up his things. After a couple of unexplained days in London, he was gone. He stepped off the plane in Sydney a new man. His head covered in a lovely flowing bush of hair. Yes the back and sides were a very slightly different shade the fixed colour of the hair on top but no matter – who would notice? His days at his new job for the Credit Insurers Agency were going to be full of fun now he was hairy. Bobby felt a million dollars, everywhere he went he drew attention. Men wanted to know all about his time with the SAS and always understood when Bobby explained how he could never say what missions he had been involved in. Women enjoyed his British accent. He could see they were talking about him too, whenever they were out he would see his friends pointing and laughing, clearly remembering one of his witty jokes about the Aussies being criminals. He’d notice girls admiring his hair – this was it, he was back in control of his head.
It was a very bad day indeed, in the height of an Australian summer, when Bobby was really struggling to cope. He was drenched in sweat and his head felt hotter than he could ever remember it feeling. Bobby felt really uncomfortable but could not put his finger on the problem. The guys he was with were suffering too. All of them were looking flushed and couldn’t sit still. The guys were coughing a great deal now and making all sorts of strange noises. Bobby assumed that this was how Aussies coped with the heat so he joined in, coughing and laughing. Then he noticed that they were all patting their heads, again our man joined in. The feeling of despair as he realised the glue had melted in the heat and his toupee had slid onto the back of his head was surpassed only by the realisation that his friends had been so quick to find it funny. Not one of his friends had been shocked or surprised, they all had known all along.
From that point on he was known as Bald Bobby and his depression returned fast. All his confidence was shot to pieces. Bobby thought long and hard about what to do next and that brings us back to the start. Several visits to a private surgery later and Bobby was back feeling optimistic. He’d quit his job and taken a long break before starting a new one in Wales. He stood and admired himself in the mirror. The tiny curly strands of hair that had started to grow on top of his head looked fantastic. Sure they looked a little like armpit hair right now and sure they were a little more spread out than he hoped but there was still two weeks yet. Bobby still had a fortnight until his job started at Torchwood. He wasn’t too sure about this particular job as he didn’t think it looked very exciting, but the Captain had sounded jolly enough on the phone. Yes the future was bright, and with another new start and another new head of hair everything was going to work out this time …
Authors note:- this story is entirely based on a true story.
Bobby’s name and almost all of the facts have been made up to protect the innocent.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
has anyone seen my missile?
3 seconds, 2 seconds, 1 second ………………………. Anyone know where our missile went?
This was pressure, the stress was really hitting hard and this was the moment where I could really shine. It very nearly worked.
It had been a hard slog on my last ship in the Navy. I’d really struggled to cope with being back on a ship. I’ve said before about how I’d lost my military mojo after being in Italy and joining an out of date ship with nothing to do but wait a year and a half for my resignation notice to pass did not help. What happened is that I got it all wrong. I made too many silly mistakes early on in my time on the ship which stuck on me like glue. I wasn’t happy and wasn’t making many friends.
But I was trying to get to grips with a difficult radar system, guiding missiles to hopefully protect the ship – nothing trivial I can assure you. I may not have been the best sailor in the world but I was getting my head around the specific equipment I had to work with. Luckily we had a bit of a shift around above me and 2 new guys came in. Jack and Andy were great. They did something which is fairly unusual in the Navy, and decided for themselves what they thought of me rather than just accepting what they are told.
I was given a chance and the motivation to pick myself up out of the doldrums and get back to work. The crunch came some time later when one of our Petty Officers had to leave the ship early. We were patrolling the Gulf at the time and Saddam was kicking off again, things were tense. As I’d been passed for promotion for a few years at this point I should have been the automatic choice to take his place. No one should have even considered looking elsewhere. People did look elsewhere though. The big boss certainly looked elsewhere. My Chief proposed the other guy on my section and he hadn’t even taken his promotion exams yet. This was all the kick up the backside I needed. My head focused instantly and things began to fit into place. Jack and Andy campaigned good and hard on my behalf and eventually, reluctantly the decision was made in my favour.
I remember being taken into the WEO’s (big boss) office and told in no uncertain terms how much he didn’t want to give me this promotion but had no choice. So I was there, I’d picked up a temporary promotion acting as a Petty Officer until such time as a proper replacement could be found, get in there. With that came some real hard work though, I had not done the level of training on the equipment that someone at this level should have done, so I did not have the in depth knowledge. We also had a quite poorly radar that needed a lot of love.
A month later and the pressure was really on. We were doing a firing of a test missile actually in theatre, within tracking distance of Iraq. My radar is the aft one and I sit and wait whilst the forward radar get first try. Jack and Andy pull a blinder and hit the target smack on the nose; all eyes turn to the back end of the ship. Missile is fired and all is going well. The radar keeps running and I sit holding the lock on the target. I’m doing the countdown and all is running perfectly. Slowly as the seconds tick by, we get closer and closer to the target. It takes forever each moment lasting an eternity.
All my data suggests that we should have hit it by now though; surely we should have hit it. The missile had disappeared. The temptation to shout leg it and hide was overwhelming as I foresaw the tidal wave of blame that was coming my way; everyone was right and I should never have been picked.
When all the reports and analysis had been completed though I was very excited to hear that the missiles own steering had been off. It wasn’t just our radar we were testing at the end of the day, the launcher was under test but also the missiles themselves. This particular missile wasn’t one of the standard ones we had in the magazine, but a special one with a trial guidance package on board. The missile was reporting that it was on course but was in fact way off it. Everyone on the ship involved with the launch had acted perfectly, our systems were working perfectly, even the standard missiles we had ready for real life action were blameless so we could hold our heads high.
As you’d expect there were still some people who acted as though it was all my fault, but this did not matter, the people who did matter knew the truth. Indeed months later when my full promotion arrived and I was given the position permanently it was a very different meeting with the WEO. This time he sat me in his office and was really positive, backing me fully and saying I’d proved myself. I’m certainly not trying to take the credit for getting that missile away, a lot of people were much more involved than me, but I played an important part and I know I rose to the challenge. I’m quite proud of myself for that, shame we missed though.
This was pressure, the stress was really hitting hard and this was the moment where I could really shine. It very nearly worked.
It had been a hard slog on my last ship in the Navy. I’d really struggled to cope with being back on a ship. I’ve said before about how I’d lost my military mojo after being in Italy and joining an out of date ship with nothing to do but wait a year and a half for my resignation notice to pass did not help. What happened is that I got it all wrong. I made too many silly mistakes early on in my time on the ship which stuck on me like glue. I wasn’t happy and wasn’t making many friends.
But I was trying to get to grips with a difficult radar system, guiding missiles to hopefully protect the ship – nothing trivial I can assure you. I may not have been the best sailor in the world but I was getting my head around the specific equipment I had to work with. Luckily we had a bit of a shift around above me and 2 new guys came in. Jack and Andy were great. They did something which is fairly unusual in the Navy, and decided for themselves what they thought of me rather than just accepting what they are told.
I was given a chance and the motivation to pick myself up out of the doldrums and get back to work. The crunch came some time later when one of our Petty Officers had to leave the ship early. We were patrolling the Gulf at the time and Saddam was kicking off again, things were tense. As I’d been passed for promotion for a few years at this point I should have been the automatic choice to take his place. No one should have even considered looking elsewhere. People did look elsewhere though. The big boss certainly looked elsewhere. My Chief proposed the other guy on my section and he hadn’t even taken his promotion exams yet. This was all the kick up the backside I needed. My head focused instantly and things began to fit into place. Jack and Andy campaigned good and hard on my behalf and eventually, reluctantly the decision was made in my favour.
I remember being taken into the WEO’s (big boss) office and told in no uncertain terms how much he didn’t want to give me this promotion but had no choice. So I was there, I’d picked up a temporary promotion acting as a Petty Officer until such time as a proper replacement could be found, get in there. With that came some real hard work though, I had not done the level of training on the equipment that someone at this level should have done, so I did not have the in depth knowledge. We also had a quite poorly radar that needed a lot of love.
A month later and the pressure was really on. We were doing a firing of a test missile actually in theatre, within tracking distance of Iraq. My radar is the aft one and I sit and wait whilst the forward radar get first try. Jack and Andy pull a blinder and hit the target smack on the nose; all eyes turn to the back end of the ship. Missile is fired and all is going well. The radar keeps running and I sit holding the lock on the target. I’m doing the countdown and all is running perfectly. Slowly as the seconds tick by, we get closer and closer to the target. It takes forever each moment lasting an eternity.
All my data suggests that we should have hit it by now though; surely we should have hit it. The missile had disappeared. The temptation to shout leg it and hide was overwhelming as I foresaw the tidal wave of blame that was coming my way; everyone was right and I should never have been picked.
When all the reports and analysis had been completed though I was very excited to hear that the missiles own steering had been off. It wasn’t just our radar we were testing at the end of the day, the launcher was under test but also the missiles themselves. This particular missile wasn’t one of the standard ones we had in the magazine, but a special one with a trial guidance package on board. The missile was reporting that it was on course but was in fact way off it. Everyone on the ship involved with the launch had acted perfectly, our systems were working perfectly, even the standard missiles we had ready for real life action were blameless so we could hold our heads high.
As you’d expect there were still some people who acted as though it was all my fault, but this did not matter, the people who did matter knew the truth. Indeed months later when my full promotion arrived and I was given the position permanently it was a very different meeting with the WEO. This time he sat me in his office and was really positive, backing me fully and saying I’d proved myself. I’m certainly not trying to take the credit for getting that missile away, a lot of people were much more involved than me, but I played an important part and I know I rose to the challenge. I’m quite proud of myself for that, shame we missed though.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
sleeping like babies...
Yesterday morning my boys were lovely. I looked at them snuggled in their beds snoring away and thought I was the luckiest Dad in the world. Then I looked at the clock and remembered it’s a school day and they ought to be getting dressed by now the little buggers.
We’ve just had another weekend of tired boys testing our patience. My Mum & Dad were over which was great but the boys saw that as a more than good enough reason not to bother sleeping. This is not unusual of course, most kids will do this.
They had a tricky time of it last week; the sun was hot so sleep came hard. By Friday they were well ready for the weekend. The good thing is that we had nothing to get up early for Saturday. No football, no school fetes – nothing at all. Which was why getting a toy ambulance siren screaming into my ear at 6 o’clock came as a bit of a shock. No way would they go back to bed, they were up and staying up.
By the time their Grandparents arrived the boys had already started to flag. As a parent you know it’s coming, but there’s nothing you can do. No kid in the world will accept that if they have some sleep now while nothing is happening, they will be able to enjoy themselves more later on. Saturday was spent chasing round, keeping the two lads apart and negotiating over every tiny little thing. We weighed out sweets on a pharmacists super accurate scale in order to ensure that neither of them gets even the smallest fraction of a sweet more than the other. A child’s eye can spot a slightly bigger Smartie from 10 paces.
Sunday was the same after the kids excitedly woke their Grandparents up and ridiculous O’clock. However I have to say that on the whole they weren’t too bad – the kids that is not the Grandparents!. The tested us and pushed us but nothing serious, mild fighting over toys and a small cricket bat on head incident. I thought they weren’t really trying. I know that both my boys can do much worse than that. Daniel did try and have a major scream about being told he would have to tidy his room, banging about and demanding that his brother should be there as well; slowly his head worked out that what he had actually been told was that both of them would have to tidy their room before bed, and that he didn’t have to do it yet. There was a gradual slowing of the noise and then finally footsteps on the stairs. “Do I have to do the room now or can I still play?”, “you can still play; tidy your room at bedtime!” “Oh”. And that was it, bless him.
So there I was at 7 on a Monday and the little monkeys are fast asleep – why can’t they do this on a Sunday? Well it’s no good they need to get up, now where’s that ambulance…
We’ve just had another weekend of tired boys testing our patience. My Mum & Dad were over which was great but the boys saw that as a more than good enough reason not to bother sleeping. This is not unusual of course, most kids will do this.
They had a tricky time of it last week; the sun was hot so sleep came hard. By Friday they were well ready for the weekend. The good thing is that we had nothing to get up early for Saturday. No football, no school fetes – nothing at all. Which was why getting a toy ambulance siren screaming into my ear at 6 o’clock came as a bit of a shock. No way would they go back to bed, they were up and staying up.
By the time their Grandparents arrived the boys had already started to flag. As a parent you know it’s coming, but there’s nothing you can do. No kid in the world will accept that if they have some sleep now while nothing is happening, they will be able to enjoy themselves more later on. Saturday was spent chasing round, keeping the two lads apart and negotiating over every tiny little thing. We weighed out sweets on a pharmacists super accurate scale in order to ensure that neither of them gets even the smallest fraction of a sweet more than the other. A child’s eye can spot a slightly bigger Smartie from 10 paces.
Sunday was the same after the kids excitedly woke their Grandparents up and ridiculous O’clock. However I have to say that on the whole they weren’t too bad – the kids that is not the Grandparents!. The tested us and pushed us but nothing serious, mild fighting over toys and a small cricket bat on head incident. I thought they weren’t really trying. I know that both my boys can do much worse than that. Daniel did try and have a major scream about being told he would have to tidy his room, banging about and demanding that his brother should be there as well; slowly his head worked out that what he had actually been told was that both of them would have to tidy their room before bed, and that he didn’t have to do it yet. There was a gradual slowing of the noise and then finally footsteps on the stairs. “Do I have to do the room now or can I still play?”, “you can still play; tidy your room at bedtime!” “Oh”. And that was it, bless him.
So there I was at 7 on a Monday and the little monkeys are fast asleep – why can’t they do this on a Sunday? Well it’s no good they need to get up, now where’s that ambulance…
Monday, July 6, 2009
teenagers are fun
I’m loving the young lad sat opposite me on the train tonight. I’m guessing 17 at the most and quality entertainment. I’m not sure how often he’s been away from home but I can’t believe it’s often.
He is somewhat gonky looking. Curly ginger hair, buck teeth and freckles. But what’s making me laugh even more than that are his phone calls. He is full of teen attitude but without the sense to use it. He sat down in a humph then looked embarrassed when he realised he’d sat down next to pretty girl. Then his Mother called and I started to giggle.
All his words are short and exasperated like it’s way too much trouble.
“What Mum? I’m on the train – what ? OHHHH !” as he puts his phone back on the table.
“Hello, yes Mum your phone is rubbish – OHHH!” as he slams his phone back on the table, only a 17 year old would assume that it’s his Mum’s fault that the call she has made to him from her home phone is the reason he keeps losing signal on the train.
“What? – no I don’t know where you can pick me up – Swindon or somewhere probably, later I don’t know when – no I don’t want to come home at 8 I want to stay out later” Down goes the phone again.
He picks up the phone and dials, clearly to someone else.
“yeah it’s me , I’m on the way but Mum’s going right off on one, she just doesn’t get it , she doesn’t realise I’m old enough to stay out if I want, I’m not a kid. Ok I’ll see you”
5 seconds later re dials another number
“Hello Mum, do you know what time this train gets to Swindon? I’ve just left Paddington, will you pick me up? – no I don’t know when it gets there!”
Classic!
He is somewhat gonky looking. Curly ginger hair, buck teeth and freckles. But what’s making me laugh even more than that are his phone calls. He is full of teen attitude but without the sense to use it. He sat down in a humph then looked embarrassed when he realised he’d sat down next to pretty girl. Then his Mother called and I started to giggle.
All his words are short and exasperated like it’s way too much trouble.
“What Mum? I’m on the train – what ? OHHHH !” as he puts his phone back on the table.
“Hello, yes Mum your phone is rubbish – OHHH!” as he slams his phone back on the table, only a 17 year old would assume that it’s his Mum’s fault that the call she has made to him from her home phone is the reason he keeps losing signal on the train.
“What? – no I don’t know where you can pick me up – Swindon or somewhere probably, later I don’t know when – no I don’t want to come home at 8 I want to stay out later” Down goes the phone again.
He picks up the phone and dials, clearly to someone else.
“yeah it’s me , I’m on the way but Mum’s going right off on one, she just doesn’t get it , she doesn’t realise I’m old enough to stay out if I want, I’m not a kid. Ok I’ll see you”
5 seconds later re dials another number
“Hello Mum, do you know what time this train gets to Swindon? I’ve just left Paddington, will you pick me up? – no I don’t know when it gets there!”
Classic!
Saturday, July 4, 2009
messages from Facebook
An unexpected message on Facebook made me smile today. A guy I haven’t seen in 19 years saying hello; another feather in the cap for FB that it makes finding people so easy.
I shared a mess with Compo for most of a year in training and then again on our first ship. Compo was a Yorkshire man through and through, his nickname suited him completely. This blast from the blast has reminded me of a night in Southampton. This memory came back especially because in his message Compo mentioned another lad ‘Spotty’.
It was a pre-planned Mess night out, late in November. This night for another reason, but it doubled up as a leaving do for me because I was set to leave the ship the following week. It was set to be a good night and the theme was train spotters I think or just geek clothes. Hence about 20 of us set out that night all dressed in rubbish clothes bought from charity shops and looking dreadful. I’d upset a couple of the more fashion conscious of our team by selecting an awful Lacoste jumper from the charity shop which they felt was actually a nice jumper, madness. A couple of swift ones locally and then it was off to the train station.
Not long into the train journey to Southampton and I suddenly found out why the lads had been gone quiet earlier on, when I came back from the toilet. I was grabbed and debagged – completely starkers! Oh dear. The people bearing my clothes ran laughing to the windows and dangled them outside - threatening to let go. Well I say threatening… Spotty hadn’t quite listened to the full brief and threw my shoe straight out. The look on his face as he realised that everyone else was only pretending was worth the loss of the shoe to be fair.
The real plan was that my clothes were rushed from the back of the train where we were, to the very front of the train. I was then given the choice of remaining naked or fetching the clothes. With my unmentionables hidden by my hands I set off to the front. It was actually quite exciting; I was clapped and whooped by the passengers. I was still only 18 and not in dreadful shape after all. I locked eyes with a few smiling girls and thought that this was OK. I was applauded for the whole length of the train as people thought that this was all a good laugh between friends. I actually enjoyed it and strode quite proudly along as people strained to check out my bum after I’d passed.
Sadly that feeling was not to last. Of course when I got to the other end I found my clothes and got dressed. And so on the return journey the mood completely changed. I no longer heard the whoops or the claps or the smiling girls. Now it had all become clear to them what was happening. One look at my attire confirmed that I wasn’t one of the lads having a good time after all. Everyone could clearly see that in fact I was just a complete nerd who couldn’t stand up to bullies. I’d deserved to be debagged for being such a gonk; the slight limp being produced from only having one shoe exaggerating this image. I’d gone from hero to zero and felt more embarrassed on this return walk than on the previous one.
After that the night went very well, we had a really good night and the lager soon helped to forget the pain of walking around cold November streets with only one shoe. I tried walking the length of a train in the nude today in order to try and recreate that feeling. I hid my best NEXT suit earlier but frankly it didn’t work. I’m not 18 any more and there were a lot of complaints.
I shared a mess with Compo for most of a year in training and then again on our first ship. Compo was a Yorkshire man through and through, his nickname suited him completely. This blast from the blast has reminded me of a night in Southampton. This memory came back especially because in his message Compo mentioned another lad ‘Spotty’.
It was a pre-planned Mess night out, late in November. This night for another reason, but it doubled up as a leaving do for me because I was set to leave the ship the following week. It was set to be a good night and the theme was train spotters I think or just geek clothes. Hence about 20 of us set out that night all dressed in rubbish clothes bought from charity shops and looking dreadful. I’d upset a couple of the more fashion conscious of our team by selecting an awful Lacoste jumper from the charity shop which they felt was actually a nice jumper, madness. A couple of swift ones locally and then it was off to the train station.
Not long into the train journey to Southampton and I suddenly found out why the lads had been gone quiet earlier on, when I came back from the toilet. I was grabbed and debagged – completely starkers! Oh dear. The people bearing my clothes ran laughing to the windows and dangled them outside - threatening to let go. Well I say threatening… Spotty hadn’t quite listened to the full brief and threw my shoe straight out. The look on his face as he realised that everyone else was only pretending was worth the loss of the shoe to be fair.
The real plan was that my clothes were rushed from the back of the train where we were, to the very front of the train. I was then given the choice of remaining naked or fetching the clothes. With my unmentionables hidden by my hands I set off to the front. It was actually quite exciting; I was clapped and whooped by the passengers. I was still only 18 and not in dreadful shape after all. I locked eyes with a few smiling girls and thought that this was OK. I was applauded for the whole length of the train as people thought that this was all a good laugh between friends. I actually enjoyed it and strode quite proudly along as people strained to check out my bum after I’d passed.
Sadly that feeling was not to last. Of course when I got to the other end I found my clothes and got dressed. And so on the return journey the mood completely changed. I no longer heard the whoops or the claps or the smiling girls. Now it had all become clear to them what was happening. One look at my attire confirmed that I wasn’t one of the lads having a good time after all. Everyone could clearly see that in fact I was just a complete nerd who couldn’t stand up to bullies. I’d deserved to be debagged for being such a gonk; the slight limp being produced from only having one shoe exaggerating this image. I’d gone from hero to zero and felt more embarrassed on this return walk than on the previous one.
After that the night went very well, we had a really good night and the lager soon helped to forget the pain of walking around cold November streets with only one shoe. I tried walking the length of a train in the nude today in order to try and recreate that feeling. I hid my best NEXT suit earlier but frankly it didn’t work. I’m not 18 any more and there were a lot of complaints.
Friday, July 3, 2009
the hot poem
The heat is unbearable,
The heat is nasty,
I wish I was in Cornwall,
Eating a Pasty.
But instead I’m under London,
Roasting like some pork,
Why’s that man licking his lips,
And holding a fork?
45 degrees on the Circle line,
Stood squashed up against a bloke,
His really sweaty armpits,
Are making me choke.
The sweat is dripping off me,
Onto the legs of a pretty girl,
I don’t think she wants to kiss me,
In fact it looks as though she’ll hurl.
I’m not convinced I like this sauna,
This is not a holiday,
I’m not dipping into the cold pool,
I’m not whale watching in Cardigan Bay.
I’m travelling under London,
My 24 hour deodorant failed to make it,
My shirt is wet, my pants are too,
Why can’t I strip them off and shout “come on let’s all get naked”?
The whole carriage would be starkers,
We’d make a dreadful sight,
Nobody would stop laughing,
Going round and round all night!
The heat is nasty,
I wish I was in Cornwall,
Eating a Pasty.
But instead I’m under London,
Roasting like some pork,
Why’s that man licking his lips,
And holding a fork?
45 degrees on the Circle line,
Stood squashed up against a bloke,
His really sweaty armpits,
Are making me choke.
The sweat is dripping off me,
Onto the legs of a pretty girl,
I don’t think she wants to kiss me,
In fact it looks as though she’ll hurl.
I’m not convinced I like this sauna,
This is not a holiday,
I’m not dipping into the cold pool,
I’m not whale watching in Cardigan Bay.
I’m travelling under London,
My 24 hour deodorant failed to make it,
My shirt is wet, my pants are too,
Why can’t I strip them off and shout “come on let’s all get naked”?
The whole carriage would be starkers,
We’d make a dreadful sight,
Nobody would stop laughing,
Going round and round all night!
Thursday, July 2, 2009
surviving childbirth
Mistakes - I’ve made a few. Here are a few lessons I’ve learnt the hard way around childbirth. After being present for two births I’ve been able to compile a list of things that with hindsight; could have been handled better.
Do not complain of having had little sleep due to her screaming with every contraction.
Do not ever tell her she’s “looking a bit rough”
Never ask if you can take a photo when the nurse is checking the diameter of the womb.
Do not do the “He’s just like his Father” gag when you see the umbilical cord – apparently they’ve heard it.
Do not hog the gas – let the lady have some too.
She may well be lying suggestively on a bed with hardly anything on but apparently the suggestion is not that she is in the mood.
Asking for an extra stitch for the husband is no longer thought of as acceptable.
Do not suggest that she is milking it a little, when you’re parts are within arms length.
Most Nurses don’t know Abi Titmus
Apparently it’s really common for premature babies to be born completely the wrong colour, looking nothing like you and with an oddly American sounding cry if the Mum went on Holiday with the girls 2 weeks before conception. It’s due to the salads being washed in the local water or something.
Do not complain of having had little sleep due to her screaming with every contraction.
Do not ever tell her she’s “looking a bit rough”
Never ask if you can take a photo when the nurse is checking the diameter of the womb.
Do not do the “He’s just like his Father” gag when you see the umbilical cord – apparently they’ve heard it.
Do not hog the gas – let the lady have some too.
She may well be lying suggestively on a bed with hardly anything on but apparently the suggestion is not that she is in the mood.
Asking for an extra stitch for the husband is no longer thought of as acceptable.
Do not suggest that she is milking it a little, when you’re parts are within arms length.
Most Nurses don’t know Abi Titmus
Apparently it’s really common for premature babies to be born completely the wrong colour, looking nothing like you and with an oddly American sounding cry if the Mum went on Holiday with the girls 2 weeks before conception. It’s due to the salads being washed in the local water or something.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Surviving underground
Mistakes – I’ve made a few. Here are a few lessons that I have learned the hard way about surviving the London Underground
If you are boarding a train at a main train line station in evening rush hour and you are not a rugby hooker with the full scrum propping you up, do not remain stood directly in the centre of the opening doors.
If you have locked on to an up coming empty seat and make a go for it, try to remember that whilst a slight hesitation will lose you the seat, not even taking a second glance before sitting down could result in the large bottomed lady who was a millisecond behind you, landing on your lap.
Never ask a young lad with a posse of friends which side of the circle line to get on to get to your destination the short way.
Unless she has a very clearly defined ‘bump’ never offer a fat girl your seat.
Finchley Road Tube station is NOT in Finchley.
Do not panic and shout at the ‘driver’ of the DLR to come back when he gets up from his seat and walks off mid journey.
Always check that the oddly empty seat surrounded by people stood up hasn’t been weed on before jumping in it with a smug look of satisfaction.
When visiting London with your wife, do not assume she has also spotted that the doors are about to shut and is therefore right behind you as you jump on.
If you are boarding a train at a main train line station in evening rush hour and you are not a rugby hooker with the full scrum propping you up, do not remain stood directly in the centre of the opening doors.
If you have locked on to an up coming empty seat and make a go for it, try to remember that whilst a slight hesitation will lose you the seat, not even taking a second glance before sitting down could result in the large bottomed lady who was a millisecond behind you, landing on your lap.
Never ask a young lad with a posse of friends which side of the circle line to get on to get to your destination the short way.
Unless she has a very clearly defined ‘bump’ never offer a fat girl your seat.
Finchley Road Tube station is NOT in Finchley.
Do not panic and shout at the ‘driver’ of the DLR to come back when he gets up from his seat and walks off mid journey.
Always check that the oddly empty seat surrounded by people stood up hasn’t been weed on before jumping in it with a smug look of satisfaction.
When visiting London with your wife, do not assume she has also spotted that the doors are about to shut and is therefore right behind you as you jump on.
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