The last weekend

I guess that is the summer holidays finished then? Jo heads back into work officially this morning and the boys start their new school years on Thursday. I say Jo works ‘officially’ today because it certainly isn’t the first time she has been in and worked over the last few weeks (I should point out that my wife is a teacher, and though people think that teachers spend the whole of the school holidays on their backs with a pitcher of Pimms, in fact they spend quite a bit of it working, though the Pimms jug certainly gets a thorough workout).


Fortunately in England, we were able to finish off the holidays with a bank holiday and so we were able to enjoy one last long weekend.

I say ‘enjoy’.

I finally exorcised the demon that had taunted me for the last two years. For far too long I had allowed myself to be oppressed by the Mount Everest sized pile of junk in the garage. On Saturday I decided enough was enough. It was time to Man up and conquer the beast. I grabbed my rope, emergency packs, GPS and oxygen and opened up the garage doors. There it was, the storage depot of doom, as my youngest boy would say. I hacked away for hours, fighting many over fed jungle sized spiders along the way (manfully, I might add). Every now and again Jo would come out and fold her arms meaningfully at me, she would ask if I’d done this yet or done that yet? I wasn’t really listening as I was too busy grappling with a mouldy Futon at the time, so I didn’t catch exactly what bit of valuable advice I was being given.

Just as the rain clouds covered over what might otherwise have been a beautifully dramatic sunset, I stood with my hands on my hips and proudly nodded my head. I was standing in an acre of space, the likes of which we had not seen since moving here two years earlier. I’d taken three car loads of stuff to the dump and one car load to the charity shop. Out of nowhere, we had a garage floor. Suddenly we were able to open the ‘garage fridge’ door without having to first move a box out of the way. I opened it up excitedly and found the leftover plate of turkey that we had lost after Christmas.

The garage has a floor

Tears welled up in my eyes at the knowledge that we had bagged up half of the crap that had been in the garage before leaving our last house, paid for a team of removal men to carry it here, only for me to curse about it for two years and then finally throw it away. I was already a little emotional after biting the bullet and throwing my old ‘single days’ video collection away (no not that one, that’s still safe in the loft – the other video collection). I’d almost sobbed after I asked the man at the tip, “I’ve a box full of videos here, shall I just dump them, or leave them out on the side?” His faced lit up with excitement at the sounds of a freebie haul of videos, so he asked “What videos are they?” “It’s a full collection of Start Trek Videos actually” I replied and his face fell dejectedly as he pointed to the landfill skip. At that, they were gone, after all these years. Jo came out to offer me some emotional support, praise and gratitude, which she did by pointing at the spaghetti junction ‘decorating shelves’, and asking if I was going to do them as well.

Decorating shelves

The afternoon (I discovered that the rain clouds weren’t hiding a sunset after all, and in fact it was only lunchtime) was spent going for a family walk by the river Thames in Abingdon. The boys and Jo enjoyed getting muddy and wet, which was nice for them, I thought. A bit of a play and an ice cream and everyone was smiling.

Sunday was spent in the garden, grass cutting and sorting. I also trimmed Jo’s bush for her, which cheered her up no end as it had got in quite a mess. I told her that maybe next time she should get a man in to do it, because I hadn’t really enjoyed the experience. Jo agreed almost too enthusiastically for my liking.

On Monday I dragged out the recently rediscovered bike rack from its new position in the garage and put it on the car. The bikes were loaded, as were the family, and we drove for an hour to find Cotswold Water Park. The specific area we were looking for had a beach and a play area, as well as plenty of good healthy cycle routes. The sun was out and it was perfect. We arrived and immediately Jo and I shared a smirk, we had hit the jackpot. The boys were going to absolutely love this place. I had almost finished unloading all the bikes when I heard a massive cry of pain. Jo had sprained her ankle on a rabbit hole near the car.

I pointed out that I’d gone to quite a lot of effort getting her cycle off the rack, but I think she had lost some of her sense of humour when she had fallen over, because she didn’t laugh. In fact Jo was in a lot of pain and so all I could do was get the picnic rug out for her to sit on and give her a cuddle. The guys in the next car had a spare ice pack, which we borrowed gratefully. Eventually Jo managed to get into the car seat and we had some thinking to do. On one hand the boys have to accept that accidents happen and can’t be helped, but then… their little puppy dog eyes couldn’t quite understand the reasoning behind re packing the car. A compromise was found; I took the boys to the beach for ten minutes and let them have a dip in the lake, while Jo sat in the car feeling sorry for herself. A quick dip in the water, dig on the sand and an ice cream was enough to make the two hour round trip acceptable to people so young.

Actually I was very proud of my boys. I know that having a bit of empathy for their mother’s pain is something that you always hope your children will have in cases like this, but seeing it in action was amazing. They really understood and accepted why they had to walk away from what looked like being the best last day of their school holidays ever, and get back in the car. They both put their mum first. Sounds so easy, so little to expect, but it still made me feel really proud of them. Both of them asked how she was when we got back and made no fuss at all as they waited for me to reload the bikes. Well, not much fuss anyway.

So that’s it, the last weekend of the holidays is over. Jo is sore and a bit grumpy but generally fine and relatively mobile, even if she hasn’t quite found that sense of humour she lost yet; she gave me quite a fierce look when I pointed out that doctors always say that you should raise your ankles quite high in the air to ease the swelling, and that I had an idea of how I could help her with this. I was only trying to help!

The boys are happy that they have had a good break and are ready, I think, to return to school. Me? Thanks for asking; I’m good. I have a lovely family and a garage you can walk around in; what more could I ask for?

Jo's bush

having fun in the toilet

Happy Monday to you – I hope all is well?


I thought I’d write a quick one today, to tell you about a minor toilet mishap that happened to me last week. This might be the point where you wander off to read No Missed Opportunities instead, but don’t panic – I won’t be painting a perfectly clear picture of the event with the elegant brush of powerful writing, what do you mean “I know you won’t, I’ve read your writing before”? That’s just rude…

Anyway, back to the toilet.

On the morning of the whole Ewan McGregor and Emily Blunt escapade, last week, I popped to the toilet. As I sometimes do. I don’t want to get too detailed, but I was carrying a newspaper, if that helps. I slipped into the cubicle really quickly, barely opening the outer door which, on reflection, might have been where I went wrong. The sensor for the lights is deeply inside the office toilets and I suspect they didn’t realise I’d entered the room. Instead the lights were still busy counting seconds down from whenever the person before me had left the room.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Things, for me, had just started to get interesting when CLICK. The lights went out. With no windows for natural light, when I say the lights went out, I mean the lights went out.

I sat in pitch black trying to read the paper by the light from my phone’s screen and wondering if I’d be able to do a suitable clean up job in these conditions. I tried waving my arms about, but knew full well that the light sensor couldn’t see me.

I considered phoning someone to ‘come and meet me in the toilets, as I really need you RIGHT NOW’, but swiftly spotted the major flaws in that plan and flopped dejectedly back to attempting to finish off the job in hand with my eyes closed.

Eventually, just as I was about to become forever glued to the seat, someone came into the room and headed for the urinals.

SALVATION!

The lights clicked on and I heard the silent, bemused “!” as a head tried to understand why the toilet was engaged when the lights had been off. I felt I ought to help him out a little so I cheered loudly and set to work sorting things out at my end. I heard a whimper as a very scared adult male fled the room, probably with his flies still undone.

Lesson learned; always go for a quick walk around by the urinals before taking a seat. If I did nothing else of worth that day, at least I was able to save others from my own fate by passing that nugget on.

Happy Mondays people!

Finding my alter ego

On our wet drive to Bournemouth we were passed by a van.


“What?” I hear you ask, “Really – you saw a van, driving on the motorway?”

Yes, a van and you can put your sarcasm back in its box thank you very much, if you give me a moment to get to the point without butting in we might get somewhere.

In massive letters down the side of this van was written the name of the garage to which it no doubt belonged. The name of this garage was Breeze Van Centre in Southampton.

“Breeze Van Centre!” I yelped.

“Huh?” replied my bemused wife, unable to fathom why I had got so excited about being passed by a van, in much the same way that you did. “THAT’S IT!” I exploded, the car veered across the lanes, as Jo tried to stop her ears ringing from the noise of my shouting and the kid’s crying. The boys had, in an instant, seen their future in care homes as their father dribbled his way through a life of enforced electroconvulsive therapy. “Breeze Van Centre – that’s my new pen name – my alter ego!” My children nodded knowingly at each other, and made a pact to tell their friends I was in prison for armed robbery, rather than admit I had been sectioned.

And there it was, the idea was born that I could have another life, lived vicariously through my own invention. I sat, cursing my inability to carry a pen and paper with me, my head melted with ideas. Breeze Van Centre could do anything; Breeze would live the life that I can only dream of. I can write as Breeze and chronicle his life, and those memoirs will be everything that Glen’s Life is not. Breeze Van Centre would not be stuck in a car with the windscreen wipers on full speed, carrying the world’s crappest, and most vindictive tent in the boot. No way.

“You can’t be Van Centre – that’s rubbish” mooted my lovely wife Jo (or Lulu Grigio as she will henceforth be known), “Centre doesn’t quite work; you should be something like Van Santo instead”

“WHAT? Wait! I’ve got it… Breeze Van Santo – that’s brilliant!” My head rocked with another billion ideas as to who Breeze Van Santo would be, Lulu had been right of course, Van Santo was much more exciting than Van Centre. So there you have it, my alter ego has been born. The adventures of Breeze Van Santo will follow soon, I have about a million ideas to rule out before I can show you them but I hope to bring in my guest blogger real soon.

I have a feeling that his international jet setter lifestyle will be everything that I always dreamed my own would be. Breeze wouldn’t be married (sorry Lulu), Breeze wouldn’t have any children (DNA tests pending on a few maybe - sorry boys). BVS will have hair – lots of it, and none of it will be sticking out his nose. Breeze would not go camping (unless it’s in a survival tent somewhere high up in Nepal). Bournemouth wouldn’t be good enough either, we are talking about holidays in St. Moritz or Torquay for a guy like this – two weeks as well, not just one.

I’m pretty sure there is room on Glen’s Life for my new guest blogger to chronicle his party lothario lifestyle for you, maybe one day he’ll have his own blog – no doubt the selfish git won’t return the favour and let me guest on his though – but that’s typical of a guy like Breeze isn’t it?

Now, where did I put that thesaurus – I have no idea what being a lothario actually means.

Glen's Life in a nutshell

In an entirely accurate display of Glen’s Life in a nutshell, I managed to completely miss something ‘important’ yesterday.


Important?

I’ve mentioned before that I now work in a big posh media company’s building, here in the heart of London, and this week I have really seen some benefit. Currently a film company is in London making a film for release in a couple of years. The film is Salmon fishing in the Yemen, from the book of the same name by Paul Torday.

In this film will be such names as Ewan McGregor, Kristin Scott Thomas and Emily Blunt of Young Victoria and Devil Wears Prada fame. Our flash building is being used as a backdrop for some of this filming as well as one of the offices up high, being converted to look like a trendy flat. So you can imagine all of the equipment and paraphernalia that is set up around the place as well as some of the restrictions as certain areas are blocked off.

On Friday I stood outside and watched for five minutes as Emily practiced walking through the revolving doors, as she had been doing for about an hour apparently. I laughed as I’d managed to do this successfully on my third try when we first moved into the building. Clearly actresses struggle a little more with doors than normal people.

On Monday I popped up to the top floor with my mate to have a sneaky look at what was going on. There, from my top celebrity spotting spot, was Ewan McGregor in a smart suit sat talking to a camera. I loved it, “Go on Obi Wan!” I shouted before quickly remembering where I was. I pointed at my friend and shook my head disgustedly as the crowd tutted in horror at him.

I realised that Emily was in there as well, and that they were in fact actually acting at that point. I was watching the movie being made. I found this quite thrilling I have to admit.

You know how sometimes you can see something quite clearly but you know full well that your crappy phone camera will not be able to show this properly. This was one of those times. I knew my camera would not get a good photo at all, but decided I had to try. So I got my trusty Nokia 6300 out, and concentrated.

I stood looking at my phone, trying to line up the shot without A: looking like I was taking a photo, and B: being able to actually see the people on the small screen of the phone. I spent a couple of minutes lining the shots up and then, on completion, patted myself on the back and went back to my office.

I walked in smiling to myself knowing that not only had I seen these guys at work, but I already knew that I would have taken an amusingly rubbish picture of the action to share with you lot. When I put the photo onto my laptop I could not have been more gutted if Jennifer Anniston had been in the office while I’d been away demanding to have sex with as many stumpy, balding, married men as possible.

If you zoom into the world’s worst ever paparazzi photo you will see that while I was busy aiming my Nokia, Emily was popping her boobs out. Oh don’t get excited, you can’t see anything – the point is that neither did I! I was stood right there, had I been looking I would have seen the lot. I wasn’t looking though, all I have to show for it is a photo that even the seediest celebrity stalking crap mag in the world wouldn’t pay twenty pence for.

So you might as well have it for free, go on – take it, it’s yours. I strongly doubt that even a thirteen year old boy that has just come back from hospital, where they finally removed the plaster casts from his hands after six months waiting, could successfully use this photo, so I’m not sure it will do you any good.

In the photo you can clearly see (actually you can’t clearly see this at all, that’s why I’m explaining it) Ewan McGregor’s suited back to the camera while Emily blunt flashes either completely topless, or at least her bra covered boobs at him; something that I completely managed to miss seeing. You do have to zoom in quite substantially to see this.

Typical!

I tell you what Breeze Van Santo wouldn’t have missed it; he would have seen it and the wink that Emily would have no doubt thrown his way too, but that is Breeze's life, and this is Glen's life.

Who is Breeze Van Santo?



Later…

Emily Blunt topless with Ewan McGregor

Camping in the rain

Every now and again something happens to put a smile on your face. Some times it can be as simple as seeing a smile on your child’s face. Today, my smile has been caused by this reason.


“Let’s go camping this weekend!”

There is something about hearing your wife utter that sentence that can bring hopelessness and despair into a husband’s heart. I mumbled my opinion and ran for the cover of the toilet, hiding there for as long as I could in the hope that the subject would be forgotten. Just last week I camped out in our back garden with the boys after disastrous attempts at camping in the past, which I have written up for September’s RBU post so I’m not going into that just now. I assumed that this had got the whole camping bug out of everyone’s system. I was miles off.

Fuelled with the success of our night in the garden my wife and back stabbing children went ahead and booked a night in a field while I was at work. We would be packing the car up and heading for the New Forest this weekend, like it or lump it. I opted for the latter.

With the car full of excited kids and women, we headed off with the plan to spend the day on the beach before pitching our tent in a field near Fordingbridge later in the day. This is the view from our windscreen on approach to Bournemouth

We arrived early and managed to find free parking a lengthy walk along the coast from Bournemouth’s beaches, which was good going as it was also Bournemouth’s Air show that weekend and the town was expected to be full of tourists. I got out of the car and sagged in the rain. “Come on everyone – let’s go to the beach!” shouted my wife as she bounced out of the car. Everyone was bundled into their coats and spades and buckets dragged out of the boot. I put my foot down and declared that I was not getting lumbered walking around Bournemouth in the rain carrying buckets and so in compromise, we set off carrying just the spades, in the rain, towards the beach.

We found the beach; we found some space on the beach. Here is my family ‘enjoying’ themselves on the sand.

In fairness I have to say that the important point from my above space is that they WERE enjoying themselves. Digging on a cold, wet, wind battered beach turned out to be great fun – for them. I stood and chuntered, which cheered me up a bit.

The air show was cancelled, but we walked about a bit taking in the stalls and enjoying the Navy and Marine’s display – great stuff, the lads loved it, as did I.

Eventually the time came to carry the picnic that had been on my back since we left the car, back to the car and partake in that age old British custom; eating a picnic in a car being pelted by rain within sight of a lovely, but bleak looking, beach.

Then we drove off and found the campsite in a rare break from the rain. This campsite was in Sandleheath by the New Forest and was actually quite good. If you like fields, then this one would be right up your alley. I’m being unfair, this field had a toilet and shower block in it as well, and those facilities were, in fact, very well maintained and clean so it was a very posh field. I actually have to say that as far as fields go, this one is now my favourite and would happily recommend Manor Meadows campsite to any campers heading out to this very nice part of England.

The tent was up in no time, which was handy as the rain came back. We jumped in the car and headed into the New Forest for a drive along looking for trees. We managed to find a couple, but mainly the New Forest is Heath land. Quite beautiful and dramatic looking heath land maybe, but heath land none the less. The crazy things in this area are the ponies. New Forest Ponies are wild, not actually kept by anyone. The ponies are free to roam wherever they like within the National Park including on the roads.

They have no fear of cars whatsoever, and on quite a few occasions they suddenly turned into the road in front of us forcing us to take emergency manoeuvres to miss them. Occasionally you would see the sad results of other driver’s failure to avoid these amazing animals, an unfortunate side effect of their otherwise glorious freedom.

Having stayed out and eaten so late that the boys couldn’t even eat much at all through tiredness, we ventured back to the soggy tent and piled inside, the boys giggled. Jo giggled, I chuntered. Eventually, with a frown on my face, I was the last camper to fall asleep.

I slept heavily, failing to notice that Jamie had a nose bleed in the night and his mum had needed to climb over me in order to help him – honestly, I didn’t hear any of it as she scrabbled around looking for tissues. Okay, maybe I heard some of it…

The morning was cold and wet and the day even wetter. We did get to see James Bond’s underwater car at Beaulieu so it wasn’t a complete disaster.

I struggled not to laugh out loud in the manor house at Beaulieu listening to one of the most ridiculous conversations ever. Inside the house there were some actor types kitted out in old fashioned maid and servant type outfits. They were giving advice and facts and help out to us tourists. One poor ‘maid’ was stood at a table with old fashioned toys that small kids could play with. A dad was impressing her. Dads do this sometimes; this one was making me laugh because he was being absolutely serious. I am convinced that he actually thought she was a maid.

“…I mean, it’s to much isn’t it? A house like this, it’s too big. You can’t feel comfy like it’s a home; it’s not for the likes of us. A Barn conversion, that’s what you want. A barn conversion is just right, I’ve been in some. I have, I’ve actually been in a couple…”

“Yes I know what you mean, I…”

“You wouldn’t believe what they are like, they are like a barn, but converted into a home”

“Yes, I…”

“They are amazing, you’d be better off in one of those than here in this type of old house”

I should point out that Beaulieu was a medieval Abbey, and the manor house is a beautiful old place built among the ruins.

On he went, attempting to amaze the maid with tails of these new fangled barn conversions as she attempted to explain that she wasn’t really a maid and had seen these wonders of the modern age for herself.

I was in tears.

After all of my moaning about the weekend’s rain soaked camping, the simple fact is we had a great time. For me, the best moment was the barn conversion conversation, but for everyone else the answer (when asked what your favourite part of the weekend is) was CAMPING!

The boys absolutely loved it, and cared not one jot about the rain. In fact I think they enjoyed getting to play out in the wet the most.

So I may hate being stuck in a tent, I may hate being cold and wet. But when I see my wife and children smiling and giggling with delight, as they snuggle into a sleeping bag under torchlight, I know that it is worth it – absolutely.

I just need a bigger tent.

sleeping

I’m struggling to stay awake today.


I keep nodding off for a moment; I need tea and coffee – fast!

I’ve suffered some minor sleep deprivation caused by my five year old suffering from ‘night terrors’ bless him. Jamie had a really bad nightmare last week that absolutely shocked him. No amount of assurance about how normal this is or how unreal it was seems to be helping.

It troubled him so much that he cannot get it out of his mind, and is still getting upset at bed time just in case he has it again. We have tried ignoring it, even telling him off (mildly) for being silly, but in the end – how cold hearted can you be? Who can ignore genuine distress in their children?

Because he goes to sleep already thinking about the nightmare, his sleep is broken and disturbed. When he wakes up in the night due to this, he thinks about it again and gets upset. I don’t think he has actually had the nightmare again, but just keeps remembering it when he is sleepy. When he remembers it he gets really upset. Telling him to stop this nonsense failed to have an effect, so alongside patience we are left with the only option that seems to be available.

Cuddles.

Who out there really wouldn’t get their sobbing five year old in bed with them for a cuddle? You then lie awake until they fall asleep, and the tricky parental manoeuvre of delicately replacing a recumbent child into their own bed can begin. I kind of want to be a little harder about it, on the off chance that the lack of attention will snap it out of him, but just can’t do it when the time comes. My heart just melts for the little monkey and in he gets.

So sleep is a little broken at the moment, but nothing that will kill me, and doubtless will pass soon enough. I seem to remember his older brother having some similar issues a long time ago.

Any way, shhh, I’m trying to sleep.

overlooked

His hand went up.


He’d never put it up before. He didn’t really know how to raise it. After twelve years working at the same place, working hard and doing the best that he could do, it was finally time to accept that this was never going to be enough.

‘They’ were never going to reward his service with anything more than continued employment, and though this in itself was a good reward in the world’s down trodden climate, his time was now. For too long he had just accepted his lot and gone with the flow, he needed more, he needed to grow.

Out of nowhere a promotion became available, possible, and realistically achievable. In the past he would have sat back and assumed that it would just be given to him as a matter of course. This naïveté had long since left him, and so he overcame all of his inner demons of self doubt and decided to make his feelings known.

How?


How do you do that? Who do you talk to, what do you say? Suddenly he realised he had no relationship at all built up with the level of management you would have to talk to, in order to be considered and nothing was coming down from ‘them’ to react to either. He was going to have to make the first move.

And so he wrote the email.

He read the email.

He read the email again.

He sent it.

He waited.

He tried to build up the courage to go and talk to the email’s recipient, but the longer the email went unanswered the harder it became. At what point does it become too late to ask “Did you see my email?” to someone who had clearly ignored it? He watched as his chance slipped through his fingers.

He’d got it all wrong, wasted his chance and felt small once more as the hopes of the last few days started to drift farther away on the tide of hopelessness that engulfed him. Yet again he had been reminded that he wasn’t important enough even to have his intentions acknowledged, never mind accepted.

Back in your box.

Back to work.

Mediocre engineer.

Mediocre father.

Mediocre writer.

One day.

Dream on.

My Anniversary

The twelfth anniversary of my marriage came suddenly this Sunday. Where did that come from? Somebody could have warned me. I can’t be expected to remember these things by myself can I?


Some emergency phone calls made from the garden shed and a Facebook status change soon rectified the uncomfortable hush that had descended upon my lovely wife of so many years. A quick laugh and a wink and the cover that the meal had been planned all along was complete (or it would have been if I hadn’t had to ask Jo’s parents to babysit!).

We went out for a posh, long lazy lunch (I couldn’t get an evening booking at that short notice).

The venue was Mya Lacarte (written and designed to be pronounced My Alacarte) in Reading Berkshire (Caversham to be exact).

Do you know what?

It was lovely. Really nice.

It just needed to be moved. It needs to be by a river somewhere, surrounded by meadows and perhaps a small waterfall. What it didn’t need to be surrounded by was Caversham.

Unfortunately for me, I sat facing the large window looking out onto the street and this deeply impacted my enjoyment of the meal. Jo, looking into the restaurant had a much nicer meal than me. I have to describe it a little like finding a diamond in dog poo. The excitement of finding a diamond is somewhat marred by the fact that you have to clean the poo off first.

The menu and the quality of service they were going for was of a very high standard and their prices reflected this. This is no cheap restaurant; in fact it’s pretty pricey. This is where the setting makes a difference, because surrounded by beautiful gardens and that waterfall, I would not have ever quibbled about the bill, but surrounded by a derelict bookies, run down Chinese take-aways and busy traffic it just didn’t work, I really do mean that I would have been happier, the setting really does make a difference, I felt like I was sitting in a rough restaurant being very overpriced, when in fact I was sitting in a very nice restaurant.

We spent more than £75 on a three course lunch with no wine and in fact only one beer on the drinks side of the bill, and that is serious money so you expect quite a lot in return.

We got it.

I want to make this absolutely open, the food was delicious, and the service was perfect. The attention to detail was brilliant and without doubt the price was justified. They even came out with a beautiful and free plate at the end with piped chocolate spelling Happy Anniversary surrounding some lovingly crafted jellies (I wish I’d taken a photo).

So I can definitely recommend this restaurant, you will not be disappointed. Just make sure you face into the room and not out of the window because the sight of drunks peeing in the pub doorway can sometimes put you off your white chocolate and raspberry mousse (not quite though – yum).

Oh and by the way I'm very much looking forward to the next twelve years with my beautiful wife.

My boy is a writer!

I’m very proud but mildly jealous of my son at the moment. My eight year old boy is getting published!


How great is that? (Grr).

He entered a national competition at school before the end of term, where they had to submit a 50 word mini saga. They had to create a story out of the set of ideas and plots that were provided.

What he came up with, was brilliant.

Absolutely.

Last week we got a letter to say that his submission had been good enough and so he is one of the winners. The stories selected are getting published in a book filled with these little mini sagas. As a family we are really buzzing about this, it is amazing to think this is happening for him.

I’d love to print the story here to show you how talented he is, but I daren’t in case there are any legal type issues to deal with and he winds up getting edited out.

The more cynical of you are maybe sat thinking – “How cunning, get a bunch of kids to write a book for you from across the country and fill a book up with hundreds of them, then offer them no commission whatsoever!”

It is true that the in the same envelope, that the certificate of success arrived in, was information on exactly how we can pre order our copies and many extra ones for relatives. This fact adds some weight to my own impressive cynicism; however that doesn’t take anything away from my boy’s achievement at all. He still made the book, and deservedly so.

Well done Daniel!

The things kids ask!

I want to tell you about a conversation I had with my eight year old boy when we were away on holiday recently.


I need to ask if I’ve potentially ruined the poor kid’s chances of happiness or if he should be okay?

Daniel, looking up from his Harry Hill book of jokes:

“Dad I have a joke for you, what did the owl say when he couldn’t go on a date with his girlfriend because of the rain?”

“I don’t know”

“It’s too wet to woo”

“Haha”

“I don’t get it”

“What?”

“What does it mean? What is ‘woo’?”

“Ah well, that’s what you do to try and impress a girlfriend so she will marry you, when you take her out on dates and things you are wooing her, trying to impress her.”

“Oh right – funny, so it’s too wet to woo, I get it”

“haha”

“So how did you woo Mum?”

“What?”

“How did you woo Mum?”

I had to think fast – I’m not sure I can remember ever doing any wooing – I could hardly say two bottles of Lambrusco Bianco, a curry and the ability to breathe through my ears now could I?

“The Robot Son”

“What Dad?”

“The Robot dance, I wooed her with my Robot dancing, she loves that dance”

“Really, did you?”

“Yep, we went dancing and I wooed her with my Robot”

At this point my wife came out of the bathroom having heard none of this conversation.

“Mum, is this true that dad wooed you with his Robot dancing?”

“Pardon?”

“Did you marry Dad because of how good he was at the Robot dance?”

Quick as a flash and totally dead pan, Jo replied.

“Oh yes, absolutely, works every time.”


At this point Daniel whooped, jumped up and started Robot dancing his way round the room saying that he had better start practicing then.

I have created something that looks, talks and now woos like me, I’m so sorry ladies of the future.

Handing out awards

As revealed earlier this week, Katie over at No Missed Opportunities awarded me for excellence.



I’ve had a think, and I will now pass it on.


It would be far too obvious to give it to Wanderlust (like Kristen has any space in her virtual kitchen drawer for any more awards). Therefore I’m going to shun Wanderlust’s consistent quality as I would shun a broccoli bake.


Barbara at JoBart received the same award as me already, and I wouldn’t want to go giving her a big head by mentioning how warm her little photographic snapshots into family life make you feel, so I won’t.


Katie gave me the damned award in the first place so giving it to her would be like re wrapping an unwanted Christmas present and then accidentally giving it back to the person who gave it to you the following year. (damn – er not an unwanted present of course – I’m not sure that sounds right )


So it’s time to decide – I’ve whittled it down to two, though there are plenty more who deserve it.


My two awardees that consistently produce quality work are…


Que – over at Dad by Trade, His writings about life as a father are annoyingly good, and well observed. This Excellence award goes to him specifically for his Charlie Brown & choosing the take-away analogy, which made me laugh, quite literally, out loud.


And…


Marla – over at Butts and Ashes. I can’t single a specific post out. Her consistent, positive and funny poke in the eyes of the cards that life deals you, is simply excellent. If you do nothing else today go and read Butts and Ashes (and not just the most recent post either – go back and catch up).


Well done, here is your award for excellence, created by Brittainy at Litany of Brittainy and thank you for the entertainment.

I got an award

Hey guess what? Katie over at No Missed Opportunities has awarded me this…

Apparently for excellence! Get that – to be fair Katie is on a waiting list for a lobotomy, but it still counts.

I have to have a little think about what I need to do with it – I guess I need to pass it on, which I will – but I need to have a think about that.
Meanwhile I’m going to sit smugly patting myself on the back, while recommending you pop over to Katie’s blog and have a read – because she makes me laugh.

Friends Reunited by Facebook

A moment of nostalgia soaked madness came over me as I pressed Enter. I’d done it – I’d created an event on Facebook. What on Earth had come over me?

It started out of nowhere – a snippet of a conversation about getting together with old friends, a moment’s reflection and suddenly a suggestion floated out of the air. Within minutes I’d learned how to create a Facebook event and the rollercoaster left the station.

So I wound up standing in a pub on my own on Saturday night desperately trying to look cool while shaking. Having arranged the School Reunion, I knew that I would have to turn up bang on time and wait for people. This was the worst part of the whole thing. When you go to a reunion like this you want to be a bit late, you don’t want to be the geek that gets there first, I wanted to be late – I’d have loved to be the cool one.

I stood for a while watching the football on the big screen, until I realised that this meant I was physically stood looking directly towards where the door was, and this smacked a little of desperation. So I wandered off and put my back towards the door – much cooler, and started to read the menus instead, immediately feeling self conscious about my lack of success at buffing up for this event at the gym. I didn’t want to have people being unsurprised to see the fatty paying more attention to ordering food than to his school friends.

I moved around the pub from area to area draping myself in different positions, failing every time to find one that satisfactorily made me look cool. I was going to have to accept that I am as cool as Screech from ‘Saved by the bell’. I’d already worked this out anyway when I had tried to choose my shirt for the evening. My wife shook her head in despair at me when she spotted that I’d wanted to wear my ‘George at Asda’ top (Asda is Wal Mart in England) “You can’t wear that you idiot, wear this” and she produced a top with an apparently more acceptable label, I threw it in my bag and I was ready to get in the car and drive the three hour journey to my Mum’s house.

After I’d nonchalantly wandered about the pub for 12 hours, people started to arrive, and it was immediately warm and worth the effort. We easily slipped straight into conversation and silliness like the school kids that we mentally still are. I knew I had made the right decision to create this event as face after face nervously walked in, only to turn their worried looks into smiles within moments. Seeing some of the lads from school that I haven’t seen for so many years was great, they are still good blokes even if they haven’t had the decency to grow out of their hair like I have. The ladies were looking fantastic; it’s amazing how much nicer schoolgirls can look when they grow up! I recognised one of the girls immediately as being someone I liked but absolutely could not find her name anywhere in my memory. I had a vague feeling she was a Kim or an Amy but couldn’t get any further. I tried many tricks to get someone to tell me it, desperately listening for someone to call her by her name, but no one did. Eventually I just gave up and asked one of the lads, I’d been miles off, she wasn’t Kim or Amy at all, never mind she was nice anyway whatever her name was!

Suddenly, time stopped as possibly one of the most awkward moments in my life took shape. A man walked in and came over smiling to where we were stood chatting. All of us could recognise him but couldn’t quite put a name to it. Just as I was about to try and find a way of cunningly finding it out, he opened up with “Right, I recognise your faces but haven’t a clue who you are” minutes passed and all noise faded. Somehow his gruffly spoken statement closed all avenues of conversation off, and everyone went quiet, mainly because they were having the same trouble, he didn’t know us, we didn’t know him – now what?

I bit the bullet, once again feeling the pressure of being the idiot who had organised this party. I stuck out my hand and said “I’m Glen” I saw the look of disgusted recognition in his eye as he remembered absolutely hating me.

He nodded coldly and told me his name. He was the School Bully, the real hard case, the actual top of the tree bad lad, and he really hadn’t thought much of me at School. This isn’t me being paranoid – he had made it absolutely clear for the last three years of my School life that this was the case. I’d just shaken hands with the man that had kept me running from place to place in absolute fear of attack for all that time. I hurriedly searched my memory to ensure that I’d never made any rash statements after School like “If I ever meet him again I’m going to…” ; because I suddenly didn’t want to give him a piece of my mind or take him outside. In fact I wanted to run. The old feelings came rushing back and I wondered if I could get away with just legging it out the door.

I laughed at myself for being such a wimp and swiftly realised that no threats had been made, that this guy was not the boy he had once been and though he had clearly remembered who I am, and that I probably wasn’t going to be his drinking partner for the night, he wasn’t actually planning on stuffing my head down the toilet and flushing. I relaxed, did six steps to the right and we didn’t speak again.

I can’t tell you exactly how many people came, because I didn’t stand on a chair and do a head count, nor did I hand out badges or make people sit in a circle and introduce themselves. I simply stood out of the way and let the twenty or so gang of nearly 40 years old kids get to the bar – I figured Lager would come to the rescue – I was right.

I was really impressed at how much effort people had put in to turn up, two girls had needed to board aeroplanes, and plenty more people had driven further or similar distances as me to get there. I think that is amazing, but we also had a good turnout of people that had stayed local, and I loved it.

It is possible that I may have slightly overdone the Lager, but I wasn’t the only one, so I think I got away with it. After midnight a few people headed off down the road to find a place with dancing. I liked the sound of it but the majority of people stayed in the pub we were in, so I stayed with them and danced by myself for a bit, yes – I’m right, I did overdo the Lager.

Some time around two I hurled myself into a taxi and headed away.

I’m glad I did it and really glad I went, but I’m never organising one of these nights again, although there are a few people that I’d like to make more of an effort to see now and again. I was so determined to get cleanly away when I left School and joined the Navy, that I cut myself off completely from these people. Thankfully Friends Reunited and Facebook have slowly brought some of the key faces back to life – nice one.

Mr. Bump rides again

Hello - I'm over at Real Bloggers United today and would love it if you could click here and take a peek.



Meanwhile - I'm off out on my School Reunion tonight, I'll let you know how it goes next week...

Have a nice weekend!

Commuter Surfing

http://manolomen.com/2006/05/02/hot-potato/

The feelings of guilt and suppressed working class deference, dissipated slowly as I smugly sat in my seat on a packed train in the middle of summer.


A cancelled train this morning has once again turned an otherwise happy and relaxed platform of British commuters into a braying mob of bulls, ready to stampede through the streets of Pamplona as soon as the train doors are unlocked. In the middle of all this, was me, and today I was in no mood to be swept aside by the rampaging heard. Today I decided that enough was enough, and I was getting a seat no matter how many Grandmothers, pregnant ladies and disabled children I had to stand on in order to find one.

Maybe I am overdosing a little on the testosterone from the gym, who knows. None the less, I was getting a seat and that’s all there was to it.

Luckily I had hit my platform mark perfectly and the train hit its mark too, so I was perfectly placed at a door as the train finally slowed to a stop. Before the doors could open, I could feel the pressure behind me build up as people started to push and jostle each other. I was actually pushed against the side of the train as the door opened, even though there was a queue of people needing to get off it and the crowd behind me had nowhere to go yet.

The second the last person jumped down from the train, I leaped. I knew that if I’d hesitated for a fraction of a moment more I’d be crushed, pushed aside and left for dead, so I made a desperate leap for the safety of the train’s gloomy vestibule. I had no time to relax yet though, and immediately turned left and headed into the carriage. I felt like a surfer riding the waves at Bondi Beach, My arms naturally spread themselves out like wings in order to A: balance myself against the tide of commuters pushing me forward and B: stop the crest of the human wave from overwhelming me and coming around the sides and wiping me out, as I felt it was trying to do.

I knew I had to concentrate. I could not afford to hesitate for a moment, indecisiveness would be disastrous. The instant I saw a seat I had to land in it, first time and without the slightest pause to consider who the current occupier of the adjacent seat might be. I saw my seat open up before me and dived in. The crush spilled past me until the wave finally broke at the buffet bar.

Having sat, I carefully lowered my gaze to avoid looking at the somewhat large woman heaving and panting over me with a lustful gaze towards my seat. I slyly took my pregnantometer out of my bag and scanned her, I was safe, she was just fat – I don’t stand for fat folk as they clearly need the exercise anyway. Eventually my rotund friend gave up and rolled herself towards the buffet.

And so I got my seat and my journey continued, even if I had to put up with the beep, beep, beep of the lady in the seat with me constantly sending texts for the whole journey with her keypad tones switched firmly on. Why do people do that? What possible benefit is there from being able to hear a beep every time you write a letter? Beep, beep for the whole journey – why?

TURN THE KEYPAD TONES OFF YOU MUPPET!


Oh dear, I really do need to get my testosterone levels checked.

I'm looking great

Oh my God, Rob stopped in his tracks to watch me today just as I was feeling at my most self conscious and knackered on the dreaded squatting machine.


I was trying, and failing to do my “20 reps – easy for a real man like you!” and I suddenly became aware of him stood there.

“WOW” was the first word I heard him say.

“That’s it, you are doing great – keep going” I’d already stopped at this point due to the mixture of lard and lager that I’ve subjected my body to all these years. Out of embarrassment at being caught trying to cut my reps short by about 15, I decided to try and finish the set.

And so we stood there for about three hours while I tried to do 15 squats with some ever more depressed looking motivational guru shouting out flattering remarks. By the end his throat was sore and his prompts of “wow” and “amazing” had lessened to a more convincing “The ambulance will be here in 15”.

Rob still couldn’t stop himself telling me that he was amazed at how well I’d done though.

I’m starting to wonder if he will leave me alone if I have sex with him. Will that get it out of his system do you think? It would be worth it if I can go down there and not feel such an idiot, with someone shouting out to me about how brilliant I am when I’m feeling at most self conscious and uncoordinated, in front of a gym full of beautiful people. I really don’t want to be noticed down there – why can’t he pick up on that?

When I’ve got my Athena body, instead of the McBody that I currently have, then fair enough. Rob can make all the fuss and noise that he likes. Let everyone in the gym look over and nod their heads in approval and awe about how athletic I am. Until then, Rob, I implore you – leave me alone. Let me sweat, heave and cough my way through your circuit in peace.

And yes, I did spot that if he had done that I would never have finished the squats, and the fitter ones among you will be happily slapping yourselves on the back for noting that earlier, but has it occurred to you that I might have been happier wimping out on them? For one thing I wouldn’t have cried while trying to walk down the stairs this morning if I’d stopped at five.