Now showing in glorious Vomi-color!

Our local cinema, on a Sunday morning. They run a special offer every weekend, whereby fairly recent children's films, which are no longer on general release, are shown for £1 a seat - presumably as a way of milking out those last ticket sales before the DVD is released. On the premise that it is (a) raining and (b) cheap, we thought it might be a nice idea to bring our two to see 'How to train your dragon', which the promotional leaflet tells us is showing in 'mind-melting 3D'. Unfortunately, when we arrive we quickly realise that everybody else with a child under seven living in a ten-mile radius has had the same idea. The place is packed, full of willing punters all happy to have their minds melted by however many dimensions it takes, as long as it shuts the children up and gets them 90 minutes of relative peace.The queue is colossal.
"Did you book the tickets?" I ask The Wife.
"No. Why would I book? It's only a pound each. The price would double with credit card fees. And it won't help, the queue for ticket pickup is just as long as the box office."
I look at the ticket pickup queue. She is right, it is enormous. A confused-looking woman at the front seems to be trying an endless succession of different credit cards in and out of the machine, while her children swing off her arms and the people behind her 'tut' with impatience. She look harassed, and the queue looks angry.
"What shall we do?" I ask, fully expecting The Wife to say 'bugger this, let's go somewhere else'.
"I'll queue up for tickets," she says. "You go over there and get sweets or something." She points me to the queue for the popcorn counter. It is longer than all the other queues combined. They should take a photograph of it, and print it in the dictionary next to the entry for 'despair', for illustrative purposes.
"I am not spectacularly happy with that outcome," I announce, though perhaps not in those precise words.
"Get queueing" she says, waving me imperiously away.
Eldest elects to come with me, presumably not so much because she prefers my company over her mother's, but more because of my increased proximity to sweets. She has already put her 3D glasses on, saved from the last time we visited, and is gazing about her in puzzlement.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Nothing looks different," she says. "Except that it's all darker."
It take me a second to realise what she means. "No," I say, "You don't need those glasses to see 3D in the real world. It's 3D already."
She moves a hand back and forth in front of her face while pulling the glasses up and down, to see if my theory stands up to scientific scrutiny. A woman ahead of us smiles at her indulgently, as if she can't decide if Eldest is being cute or is just simple.
A man and woman come up to join the queue behind us. He looks at it carefully, and then turns to her and says "I just don't like popcorn enough to go through all that." They walk away.
I have to agree with them. I don't like popcorn that much either: I even think the three minutes it takes to make it from scratch at home in a saucepan is too high a price to pay for the end result. But at this point I notice the Häagen-Dazs concession stand. There is no queue for that - I don't want ice cream at 10:30 in the morning on a Sunday, and it appears that nobody else does either. But it looks like they also sell the same bags of sweets as the main cinema shop. Perfect.
I march Eldest over to to the stand. "Hello," I begin. "Do you sell sweets?"
"Yeah, we do" says the deeply interested man behind the counter.
At this point, I hear hurried footsteps heading in my direction. I turn round to see Youngest, hurtling towards me, her face grey and with panic in her eyes.
"Daddy! she cries, "Daddy! Quick! I think I'm going to be...Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerugh..."
And then she throws up, all over the front of the Häagen-Dazs stand.
The people standing in the queue for the main shop, watching this little drama unfold, all make a disgusted 'urgh' noise, and the whole line seems to shimmy as it takes a collective step back from us.
"Ah..." I say, for wont of anything else.
"More coming!" shrieks Youngest, bracing herself against the side of the concession stand."Daddy, more sick is coming! Dadddeeee....Bleeeeeeuugh"
A second, larger dollop of foul-smelling white poultice is deposited on the floor.
"Wow. Cool." say Eldest, who is studying the scene with interest from behind her glasses, and is presumably thinking that the whole incident been arranged for her benefit, in order to demonstrate the immersive power that 3D imagery can bring to the vomiting experience.
"It smells of lemons," she observes, with detached scientific precision. "And you can see where she was eating pickled onion Space Raiders...." A woman in the queue gags audibly at this.
"Did you want some sweets?" asks the man behind the counter, with some impatience. I realise that the entire incident has taken place at knee-height, out of his field of vision, and he has thus seen nothing. I turn back to him and smile brightly.
"Could I have some of these paper napkins?" I ask, helping myself to a large stack before he can answer.
"Yes..." he says. Then, slightly aggrieved: "I thought you wanted sweets?"
"Personally, not quite so much now, no..." I say, judging the puddle on the floor below and helping myself to more napkins
"I want sweets" says Eldest, automatically.
"Me too..." says Youngest, who has straightened up and seems almost cheerful now her stomach is empty.
"Fine," I say, deciding that the path of least resistance is probably easiest here. "A family bag of Malteasers, please. And more napkins. And could you point me at your nearest rubbish bin?"
Later, with the floor mopped up and the dirty napkins disposed of, I discuss the incident with my wife.
"It smelled of lemons..." I say, wrinkling my nose.
"Well, yes," she says. "It would. I gave her a lemon to eat in the car."
I find this statement so outlandish that I feel I have to challenge each element of it individually: "You gave her a lemon? To eat? In the car?" I say, each question increasing in pitch to denote my rising tide of incredulity.
"Yes," she says, clearly annoyed, and then mimics my voice in her reply: "Yes, I did. Because she asked for a lemon. To eat. For breakfast. In the ca-aar..."
"A lemon?" I repeat.
"Oh, don't keep saying it. She likes lemon."
"Yeah, but didn't you think it would make her sick?"
"That wasn't the lemon. That was because of your driving. You were swinging the car about too much..."
"We were late..." I interject.
"...so when she told me she was going to be sick, I said, 'Go and tell Daddy'..."
"Wait a minute, she told you she felt ill? And so you sent her over to me to throw up on?"
She looks defensive. "Well, I wasn't giving up my place in the queue..." she says.

Nobody can touch the Duplo peacock...

I was particularly looking forward to Christmas this year.
Not, as most folk might think, because of all the traditional Christmas stuff: peace, goodwill, family visitations, gifts, feasting and the like - I'm sure that's all very nice for most normal, well-adjusted people, but I've never really considered myself to fall into that category. I'm pretty certain that at no point my life up until now have I ever been, nor in fact will I ever be, described as 'getting into the festive spirit'. I don't really do 'festive - I despise tinsel, for a start. I'm always the one at the Christmas dinner table who flatly refuses to put the paper hat on from out of the Christmas cracker ("No, you're wrong - actually it's not fun, and you all look like mental patients..."), and who supplies their own, deeply inappropriate punchlines when anyone starts reading a joke out: "What's worse that finding a worm in your apple, you ask? How about me finally cracking and killing you all with this fork...?"
However, this Christmas was always going to be special, because this was the year that Eldest reached an important and life changing milestone: this Christmas, she graduated from Duplo to proper Lego.
Now, your immediate reaction there might have been to think that this is not a big deal - but if so you would be incorrect, and should feel ashamed.
Let me be clear about my thoughts on this: Lego, as the Internet-savvy youth like to say, is both 'teh awesome' and 'made of win'. In fact, I would go further than that: I would say Lego exceeds both these descriptions, and is made of an exciting new alloy of both 'awesome' and 'win' (a material that I shall henceforth call 'Awswinium') - it's that great.

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Samurai Tiger Flu

I've not been well this week. It started mid-afternoon on Saturday, when I first gave a little sneeze, and within 30 minutes my head was pounding, my breathing was tight and a hideous colourless liquid was pouring liberally out of my nose.
"You should go to bed," said my wife after a short while.
"I don't want to go to bed. It's boring."
"You don't understand. I want you to go to bed. In fact, I'm begging you to go to bed. You are just sitting there like a great depressing lump, with a blanket over your legs like an old woman, shouting at your children if they make a noise above a whisper, and radiating germs around the living room. Go to bed."
"Well, OK. But it's just further for you to have to walk when I need you to bring me things..."
"Just go to bed. Now!"
I go to bed. It is not as restful as I might have liked.
Within a few minutes, the Youngest arrives at my bedside, her arrival heralded by the customary crashing of the door back on its hinges. She looks at me curiously.
"Mummy says you are ill"
"Yes. Yes, that's right. I am."
"Poor Daddy..."
"Yes. Indeed. Poor Daddy. Poor, sad, tired Daddy..."

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The Grumblemouth Incident

Sometimes, trying to be 'fun Daddy' can backfire quite badly:

I am bathing the girls. They are in the tub, each wearing a pair of swimming goggles, and each armed with a small water pistol that they are spraying, gleefully, into the others face. I am sheltering behind the shower curtain, which is partially extended to stop more water from going onto the floor - a floor which has long since edged out of 'damp', through 'wet' and is now heading firmly into 'soaking'.
"Try not to get your hair wet," I say, pointlessly, for the ninth time. "Mummy won't like it".
This is actually massively hypocritical of me, as the whole situation is a result of my lax parenting, a situation that the Eldest has readily picked up on:
"But you gave us the water pistols..." she says.
"Pistols!" shrieks her sister, excitedly.
"Yes, yes..." I agree. "But I didn't think you'd shoot each other."
"But you said: Why don't you shoot each other..."
"Did I?"
"Pistols! WATER PISTOLS!" cries Youngest.
"Yes, you said: Don't you dare shoot me, but you can shoot each other..."
"Ah, yes. Yes, I did. But I didn't really mean in the face..."
"In the face!" adds Youngest, in voice wheeling with joy.
"But you specially went and got our swimming goggles..." continues her sister, coolly returning fire, "...to stop it going in our eyes."
"That was a precautionary measure," I say. "It wasn't meant to encourage you to get your hair wet. Mummy won't like it if you get your hair wet."
"She won't like the water on the floor, either..." she observes.
"No..." I agree sadly. The floor is far too wet now to be dismissed as an accident. It takes a concerted effort and a protracted absence of parental guidance to get a floor that wet, particularly given that the water pistols are tiny and only hold about an eggcup full of water each, and (most damningly), require my assistance in order to be refilled. It is clear I can't just blame the girls for the mess: all three of us are going down for this...
I decide I will distract them from the water pistols, and think I may have had a brainwave as to how. I start knocking gently on the side of the tub, out of their line of sight.
"What's that knocking?" asks Eldest.

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In bed with Mrs. Bricket

Sunday morning. I am dozing fitfully in bed, numb with sleep. It is my day of the weekend for a lie-in, having been up early doing 'Daddy Duty' yesterday, and I am determined to wring every last precious second of rest out of the morning. Sadly, others in my household have decided that my allotted time is up.
The door crashes open. A diminutive figure, all curly hair and determined jawline, struts into the room as if she owns the place. It is the Youngest, and she has the 'There will be no nonsense from you' demeanour of a nineteenth century land baron dealing with a tenant who has fallen behind with the rent.
"Wake up Daddy,"she announces."It is time for you to go to school."
This seems unlikely: I have not been to school for well over twenty years. I turn my head to the bedside clock, which reveals that the time is exactly 9.30 a.m, almost to the second. This is significant, as it the time my wife and I have agreed is the earliest point we will let the children disturb the slumber of whichever parent has a lie-in. My wife often generously lets me sleep longer, and the fact that she has allowed Youngest to wake me at the first possible opportunity is not a good sign: it suggests that the children have already worn down her defences this morning and she can no longer cope without reinforcements. This suggests that what is about to follow is likely to be trying...
It is. Youngest drags open the curtains, and pale November daylight limps lazily into the room. I notice that the the air is full of soft drizzle and on the horizon are dark ominous clouds: it looks as if the sky is made of old bruises and fresh tears.

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Death at the dinner table

Another mealtime, another brief descent into madness. And, as always appears to be the case, the meal is chicken and rice. Why is it always chicken and rice? We should stop eating the damn stuff: it might be coincidence but it just seems to cause problems. This time it all kicks off at the very second we all raise our first forkful.
"When Mummy grows up, she will be a Daddy..." announces Youngest, with the air of a sage making a proclamation.
"No" says Eldest, immediately. "When Mummy grows up, she will be dead."
There is a nasty, half-second pause, much like the one you get at the top of a rollercoaster when you've stopped climbing the initial hill and levelled out, at the moment when you get a good hard look at the imminent drop. You know - a fraction before all the screaming starts.
"No" refutes Youngest, and looks to us to agree. Her sister gives her the stinkeye, and looks to us to back her up.
There is uneasy quiet, as two well-meaning parents try hard to think what to say. It's like the eldest has handed us a tin opener and a can clearly marked 'Worms', and is daring us to open it, while the youngest is begging us not to.
I seek refuge in cowardice, and fill my mouth with food, rendering me unable to speak (when you've got no other options, there's always mastication).

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The Skunk-skunk Saga

June 2008: Last year, we spent a week on the Northwest coast, staying at my inlaws house in Morecambe. During that week, on a trip to a toy shop in Bowness in the Lake District (a venue that I estimate is about 300 miles from our own home, making a casual return visit inconvenient, to say the least) my eldest daughter decided to buy a soft toy with her holiday money. The toy was in fact meant to be a squirrel, but she called it 'Skunk-skunk', whereas I called it (in private) "That hateful rat-thing with the bug eyes".
As is the manner with all her soft toys, for the week that she got it, it was the single most important object in her life. She took it to bed. She sat it at the table when eating. She insisted on carrying it around everywhere with her. She would press it's horrid little face into mine when I put her to bed, saying "Night-night kiss from Skunk-skunk." And she would continually - continually - keep losing it.
It was lost and found multiple times that year: in the car, down the sofa, in coat pockets, left at school and in the garden - a seemingly endless cycle of loss, inconsolable tears, a tense and frantic search, before (finally) recovery and stern exhortations that she should take better care of her toys.

April 2009: And then one fateful day, Skunk-skunk got lost and couldn't be found again.
Now, we've been here before, and it usually blows over - another toy comes along, takes it's place in her affections, and we can all move on. I can almost measure my daughter's age in favourite cuddly toys: I have lived through the eras of Red Ted, Green Ted, the Bunny twins, Carrot the Rabbit, Snowbear, Ducky and many, many more. There is always another toy, I thought - just give it time.
But it wasn't to be - not this time. The tears lasted for weeks, a small session of heartbreak at every bedtime, and with no apparent sign of the distress abating. We searched everywhere, at least twice. Relatives and friends who we had visited were called, on the offchance they were harbouring the fugitive. Cupboards were turned out. Light-fingered little sisters with previous convictions of toy-theft were quizzed extensively. Finally, things came to a head when I came home from work to find an A4 poster stuck to the tree outside our house. It was a picture of a red, mostly amorphous mass, but I thought recognised the two big eyes in the centre. The misspelled words written underneath confirmed my suspicions and explained the whole sad story:

"Lost Touy - Skunckskunc - plees help..."

I went inside, and was immediately besieged by the artist.
"I have been making posters to help find Skunk-skunk," she explained. "I have drawn one for you to put up at you work." She handed it to me, another A4 sheet with the same message, meticulously coloured in.
"How many of these did you make?" I asked.
"I lost count. One for the tree. One for the fridge. One for my bedroom door. One for school. One for you to take to work. One to give to Nanny..."
Lots, then. It must have taken her all afternoon. I looked down at her sad, earnest face, and decided steps should be taken. I took her hand and sat her down on the stairs.
"Sweetheart, I think Skunk-skunk has maybe really gone this time..." I began.
"Daddy, I know. That's why I have drawn posters. So when somebody else finds him, they know who he belongs to..." she explained patiently.
"Yes..." I said, trying to sound optimistic, but picturing the many and varied possible deaths of Skunk-skunk in my head (shredded in washing machine filter, found in park and chewed to bits by dog, thrown away by accident, drop-kicked into canal by vengeful sibling, etc) "...but I'll tell you what: we are going on holiday again in July, back to Morecambe. If he hasn't turned up by then, we will go back to the toy shop in Bowness and try and buy another one."
She pondered this.
"OK," she agreed. "But will you laminate my poster, for your work?"
"I think if Skunk-skunk was at work, Daddy would have seen him..." I suggested tentatively. Her face clouded over.
"But Mummy told me you would laminate it. She said you would laminate it, and then show it to everyone at your work..."
At this point I became aware of a faint sniggering coming from the kitchen.
"Did she? Good old, Mummy, eh? Always there with the bright ideas..."
"Mummy is very helpful..." said her number one fan.
"Yes," I said, meaning the opposite. "Helpful..."

July 2009, last week: Skunk-skunk has remained lost. We step off the ferry at Bowness. As our feet touch dry land, our daughter asks (as she has done every day for a month): "When are we going to the toy shop to get Skunk-skunk?"
"Be patient..." chides her mother, then whispers to me: "I do hope they have them in stock..."
I have not considered this. We could be minutes away from the mother of all upsets.
"Let's hurry..." urges our daughter, tugging on my arm.
We get to the shop which is small, with a single central shelf. The soft toys are on the far side, out of view. We round the corner to find...loads of Skunk-skunks. Baskets of them. This is something of a relief to me. I pick up one of the red squirrels and waggle it at her.
"Here we go then, sweetheart. It's a new Skunk-skunk, at last..." I say.
She is not really listening. Instead, she is staring, transfixed, at the shelf.
"They make pink ones now.." she says in a voice full of wonder.
"What?" I ask, mildly irritated.
"Pink ones..." she says, pointing.
Indeed, it appears that they do now make pink Skunk-skunks. There are a row of them right in front of me.
"But you lost a red one," I insist.
"Pink..." she says, plaintively.
"You have been crying for months about the red one," I say. "How can your affections have switched, just like that?."
"Can I get them both?"
"No, just one..."
There is period of umming and ahhing. She picks both up, one in each hand, as if weighing them.
"I will buy the pink one now, and the red one next time" she finally announces.
"Fine" I say, feeling slightly saddened at this last minute switch of loyalties - she ran a poster campaign, for Gods sake. I decide that, when her back is turned, I will secretly buy the red one as well, and hide it away in a cupboard until Christmas.

August 2009, last week: Home from our holidays, and while tidying away the coats and shoes, my daughter picks up her old pair of wellies and tries them on. Her foot won't go into one, as something is stuck inside, so she tips it out - and lo and behold, the original lost-and-long-presumed-dead red Skunk-skunk falls out onto the floor.
Now she once again has a red Skunk-skunk to go along with her new pink one. She is naturally delighted, and it appears so is everyone else - except for me, because I have just purchased a replacement red Skunk-skunk which is now clearly surplus to requirements.

August 2009, this week: I come home from work, and find the rest of the family are out. I sit on the front wall to catch a bit of sun, and wait for them. Soon enough, the car pulls up, but it's clear something is wrong. I can hear our daughter crying over the noise of the engine. That can't be good...
I open her door and she collapses, sobbing, into my arms. I look at her mother with a raised eyebrow.
"She has lost her pink Skunk-skunk" she explains.
The sobbing intensifies.
"She wanted to take it with her, and I think she left it in the park. We have been back to look for it, but it's gone..."
The sobbing turns to wailing.
"Well, at least you still have your red one..." I suggest.
The wailing gets louder. I refrain from telling her that we have a spare red one in a cupboard, as I don't think that will help either...

The unsuitability of paintbrushes

It is my father's birthday shortly, and I have no idea what to buy him.
In truth, I have had no real idea what to get him for his birthday for about a decade now. It was so much easier when I was a child, and all the money I had was the pocket money he gave me in the first place: expectations were lower. I could get away with buying him a family sized tub of salted peanuts three times a year (Birthday, Christmas, Father's day) and he could get on with the business of eating handfuls of them in front of the TV: a simple harmonic relationship that suited us both. But now I am all grown up, with a job and a house and wife and everything, the pocket money sadly dried up years ago, and I now feel I have to put a great deal more thought and effort into birthday presents. Unfortunately, he has never really seemed to care much about birthdays, and as he gets older he is getting increasingly harder to buy for - which leads us, inevitably, to The Annual Birthday Present conversation:
"Dad, it's me."
"Hello there. How are you?"
"Good. I'm ringing to have The Birthday Present conversation."
"Oh, already? Must we?"
"We must. What do you want this year?"
"I really don't know."
"No, nor do I. Think, please."
There is a short pause. I am much like my father in many ways, and I can tell he finds this question - one which most other people would welcome, what with it eventually leading to the receiving of a gift - as faintly irritating. I can understand that; I don't really know what I want either, both at the micro level of birthday presents and often in the wider 'life in general' context as well. As a result, I find being asked to think about what I want is always faintly tiresome.
"Well, I do know one thing I want - a nice set of decorators brushes."
"A set of what?"
"Decorators brushes. Some good ones."
There is a pause while I mull this over. "When you say 'decorators brushes', am I to assume you mean 'paintbrushes'?" I ask.
"Yes. A good set."
Two things strike me about this request. Firstly, I know with absolute certainty that he deliberately chose to say the far more specific 'decorators brushes' to avoid any confusion with artists paintbrushes, and I am quietly appreciative of this - I am the pedant son of a pedant father, so I mentally give him a 'high five' for linguistic accuracy, though part of me is aware that stuff like this is why our wives sometimes hate us. And secondly, as suggestions go, that is a truly awful present to buy someone.
"No. I'm not buying you paintbrushes."
"Decorators brushes..."
"Yes. I'm not buying you any."
"I've got lots already, but they are all rubbish. I've always wanted a top quality set."
"Really? Always? Because I've got to say, as 'lifelong dreams' go, owning a good set of paintbrushes seems eminently achievable. I think you could have probably sorted it out before now if it mattered that much to you...are you going to be doing any painting soon?"
"Maybe. I don't know. But you always need paintbrushes."
I close my eyes, and grimly imagine a world where I have bought him some 'quality decorators brushes' for his birthday. I can see it all too clearly: as a result, he will feel compelled to paint something - anything - to test them out, and then equally compelled to show me the resulting finish that is achievable with said brushes. I can easily foresee a time where I am staring in front of a blank wall, which he didn't really want to repaint and I don't really want to look at, and nodding mutely in agreement at how smooth it looks.
"Let's try and get a longer list." I say. "What else would you like?"
There is another, lengthier pause. "I don't know," he says finally.
This is not a surprise: if a man has so little idea what he might want for his birthday that he suggest 'paintbrushes', he is not likely to have a second or third choice handy. 'Paintbrushes' is a barrel-scraping choice as it is.
"How about some music?" I ask.
"Yes..." he says, managing to make it sound like 'no'.
"Mind you, I don't know what you'd want. I can't imagine what kind of music a man who wants something as asinine as 'paintbrushes' for his birthday might like..."
"Coldplay?" he suggests drolly.
We both chuckle halfheartedly, painfully aware that multimillionaire Chris Martin is unlikely to be crying on his beautiful superstar wife's shoulder just because we think his band are boring.
"Did you actually want the latest Coldplay album?"
"No, I've got one of the old ones. I can just play that again."
"What about books?" I ask.
"I'm not reading books much at the moment - I have great stack of them waiting to read already."
"What about magazines? A magazine subscription."
"Ah yes, that's a good idea. What do you think I'd like?"
"How would I know? 'Paintbrush Fancier Monthly'? What magazines do you read at the moment?"
"None, really."
"So you'd like a magazine subscription, but you don't know which magazine?"
"Not really..."
"Something serious? Something funny?
"Funny, maybe? I don't know."
"Well, what criteria am I meant to use to choose it, then, Dad?"
He thinks for a second, then says. "I don't like magazines lying around that only I get to read. So something that Ann can read as well."
"Seriously? Are you for real? The first thing that comes into your mind when I ask what kind of magazine you'd like is one that other people can read too?"
"Yes, I guess so."
I sigh audibly. "What about some wine?" I ask
He perks up at this, "Oh yes, some good wine. That would be excellent."
"OK, wine sound promising..."
"But not too good, or it's a waste."
"What?"
"I can't really appreciate expensive wine. I mean, I like it, obviously, but to be honest I can't always really see why a twenty quid bottle of wine is meant to taste so much better than a ten quid bottle, for example. Often I think cheaper wines are better. So if you buy something too expensive, I probably won't enjoy it as much as I feel I should."
(I should point out, just in case you were wondering, that my Dad is still mentally sound. I know it may read like it, but he is not addled in any way - quite the opposite, in fact: he's very sharp. I just want to be crystal clear that he's not confused - he's just awkward...)
I grind my teeth gently. "So, Dad, just to recap, your wishlist for a birthday present is as follows: paintbrushes that you are not sure you need, but claim you've always wanted (though not enough to actually buy for yourself), a subscription to some kind of unspecified magazine where the most important factor is that your wife can enjoy it, and some wine that is 'good' - but not so good that you feel its wasteful?"
"Sounds about right."
There is a lengthy pause.
"Can't you take up golf?" I whine. "You're always threatening to. There's no end of golf-related crap I can buy then, it'll make birthdays so much easier..."
"When I retire. Few years to go yet..."
"I have no idea what to buy you for Christmas either, by the way."
"Oh, Christmas is different. You can relax, everybody gives you rubbish at Christmas, so I don't mind so much what you buy me then..."
That does it, I think. Peanuts it is...

Flatpack magic

I am sitting alone in my car in the car park at Ikea, drumming my fingers on the dashboard in frustration.
Not, as you might perhaps have expected, because of my location - in fact I have come to terms with the fact that Ikea and I are in a long-term relationship. I simply cannot see any way in which the Swedish pine-peddlers will not be enjoying my custom for the foreseeable future, because my family are growing (in physical size, that is - not in number), whereas my budget for new furniture has remained fairly constant for many years at around 'nil'. Seeing as my children continue to (a) grow, thus requiring new beds and the like, (b) almost casually break the furniture we already have and (c) find myriad other ways for me to spend any 'spare' money we might accrue, it's clear I will be offering up the meagre contents of wallet to the Temple of the Allen Key for several years to come. Need for new furniture + lack of funds = Ikea.
No, my issue is with something that been a cause of frustration in my life for much longer than trips to blue and yellow prefabricated warehouses at the edge of major towns: namely, my mother. She is 'helping' with our Ikea trip by driving my wife and children to the store in her car, so that my own vehicle is free to transport home any furniture we buy. And she has gone missing.
I last saw her about half an hour ago, as I crested a hill. As I glanced in my rear view mirror I could see her car in the distance, doing her customary 37 miles an hour. As the speed limit on the road was 60, and it was a single track road, I could also see the enormous tailback of traffic behind her, which stretched off to the horizon. I could also faintly hear the hooting and shouting.
In the intervening thirty minutes and eight miles - which are essentially a straight road - she has somehow gotten lost. That, or somebody has rammed her off the road in frustration.
I call my wife's mobile. She answers the phone with a very detectable air of resignation, which is not surprising, as I have been calling her regular intervals to complain about the speed my mother is driving at. She has thus been placed in the excruciating position of being asked to pass on a series of increasingly rude comments to her mother-in-law, which she has politely declined to do. Wise to this, I have taken to shouting my messages at the handset so that my mother can hear anyway. I suspect my wife has not enjoyed this situation one little bit.
"Where are you?" I snap.
"We are a bit lost..." she says, after a pause
"How? I mean, seriously, how? It's basically a straight road. It's not like you were going too fast to read the roadsigns, is it?"
"We followed the wrong car..."
"What?"
"We saw another Ford Focus in the distance, so we followed that. It wasn't you. It didn't go to Ikea."
"You followed another car without ever drawing up close enough to see if it was the car you wanted?"
"It was going a bit fast for your mum to catch..."
"God. Where are you now?"
"Not sure.."
"Give me a description of what you can see..."
She does so. It becomes immediately clear that they have driven some ten miles further on from the correct turning. I give fresh directions, adding (at volume) my opinion on the optimum speed they should travel at in order to get to the store before it closes, and ring off.
However, I still feel I need to vent some frustration. I decide to call the one person in the world who probably knows exactly how I feel.
"Hello?" says my sister.
"How do you stand it?" I ask without preamble. "How do you not go stark staring mad and leap out of the vehicle, screaming?"
There is a short pause, but it doesn't take her long to catch on.
"Is it her driving, or has she lost her sunglasses again?" she asks.
"It's the driving. I have toenails that grow faster then she drives."
"It's the glasses that annoy me the most at the moment. I think her record was six times in one day. She takes them off, and then can't see well enough to find them again."
"Can she see well enough to drive?"
"Only very, very slowly, apparently..."

Some time later, my family arrive. My children seem very pleased to see me, which is good, because in the time they were gone I was starting to worry they may have forgotten what I looked like. My mother gives a disarming smile and a shrug, and my wife looks mutinous, a look I clearly interpret as saying 'We will discuss your phone calls later.' But the rest of the Ikea trip proves to be very easy: the store is very quiet, doubtless because most shoppers who drive at normal road speeds have been and gone long before we arrived. We don't even have to queue for the traditional Ikea lunch in the cafe:
"These meatballs are very nice," says my mother. "I wish I could take some home"
"They sell them in packets for the freezer..." adds my wife, helpfully.
"Will they keep? For the journey home? Won't they melt?"
"At the speed you drive, I think that's a certainty" I reply. "In fact, I think there's a fighting chance the polar ice caps might have melted by the time you get home,...
"Oh, hush now, and eat your meatballs. Your Daddy is a grumpy Daddy, isn't he, girls? Grumpy...."

Later at home (which I arrive at far enough ahead of the others to have a cup of tea, a shower, a chat with my neighbours and a lengthy read of the paper before they limp into view), I try and assemble the new bed for our youngest daughter. It becomes clear that one of the pieces supplied is incorrect: on the supplied instructions it has two holes milled in it that are mysteriously absent on the actual article - though to compensate for this I have been supplied with an extra inch-long length of dowel that serves no purpose whatsoever. I resort to checking my eldest daughters bed, which is meant to be the same model, and which features correctly milled pieces. From this I can deduce that in the two years between the purchase of each bed, the model has slightly changed - and what I have in fact been supplied is the new model of bed, only with the instructions for the old model, and a bag of fixings that do not quite match either. Taking it back is not an option, as my daughter needs a bed to sleep in that night, so I persevere with a fixing solution of my own design using the large bag of spare Ikea fixings I have accumulated over the years. This is not a complete success, it must be said, and my mother comes in to check on progress just as I realise that I have broken a second piece of the bed by hammering a dowel into a promising-looking hole that turned out to be too small for it. As a result I am indulging it a bit of imaginative swearing, which she generously chooses not to hear.
I look at her sadly. She is waiting (very patiently) for me to assemble this bed, so that I can then disassemble the cot my daughter previously slept in, which she can then take home with her to give to my sister. I realise that, in an exquisitely unpleasant turn of events, not only are two small children now dependent on me to provide a bed for them that night, but after day of griping at her, its actually my mother who is now waiting for me.
I decide extreme measures are called for. I fetch my tube of industrial adhesive, suitable for gluing chunks of concrete together, and apply it liberally. Sixty seconds later, as promised by the manufacturer, the undrilled piece is firmly glued in position to it's neighbour - but as a side effect both seem to be stuck to the floor.
"That doesn't look so good..." she observes.
"It's probably because you've lost your glasses..."
Even she smiles at this. It's good to have a mum like mine.

Dog, Car, Camera, Car, Road, Rabbit, Tree.

"Please, will you just just stop shouting? Stop shouting. Stop shouting. STOP SHOUTING!"
"But you are shouting..."
"I am shouting because you can't even hear me asking you to stop shouting over the noise you are making. That's better. Thank you."
"I am bored..."
"Shh, now. Daddy is concentrating on driving."
"Can we have a song on?
"Song on! Song on! Puffamagicdwagon!"
"No, no songs."
"Puffamagicdwagon!"
"No, no more 'Puff the magic dragon'. Not again. Let's play a game instead."
"I-spy! I-spy! I-SPY!"
"I said stop shouting!"
"Yes, yes, good idea - we can play I-spy."
"Me first! Me first!"
"Me first! Me first!"
"No: me first."
"Stop shouting. Please, will you just stop shouting? How many more times?"
"I tell you what, I'll go first. Are you ready? I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with 'D'..."
"Dog?"
"Doggie?"
"No."
"It is 'dog', mummy - there was a dog just there."
"Yes, I saw. There was a dog. But that wasn't what I chose."
"Doggie?"
"Why not? You should choose 'dog'. It is a waste if you don't choose 'dog'."
"It is not 'dog'. Any other guesses?"
"Is it 'death in a huge fireball, because the driver can't concentrate'?"
"No. Play properly."
"Is it 'despair'?
"No. Try again."
"Is it 'dog'?"
"Ha ha. Very funny..."
"Doggie?"
"It should be 'dog'..."
"Fine. Fine. Let's say it was 'dog' after all. Well done, all of you..."
"Me next! Me next! My turn!"
"OK, your turn. Off you go."
"I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with 'red'."
"With red? What do you mean, red? 'Red' is not a letter..."
"Car?"
"You can pick a colour or a letter. It's allowed."
"Is it? Since when?"
"Since forever."
"Car?"
"Well, nothing can 'begin with red'. You can't begin with a colour, so you would say, 'something that is coloured red...'
"Just drive, will you? She is five. It is a kids game, not a grammar test. Nobody is scoring her on sentence construction..."
"Car?"
"Yes. It was 'car'. That one in front of us."
"Very good. OK, little one, your turn..."
"Nooo! I want another go."
"But your sister has guessed it...it's her turn."
"That was too short! I made it too easy! I want another go - it will be longer..."
"Yes! Another go!"
"Stop shouting..."
"Okay, well, if you are both happy..."
"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with 'C'..."
"Car?"
"No."
"Caravan?"
"No."
"Cat?"
"No."
"Hmmm, are you sure it's not 'car'?"
"No, Daddy, it is not 'car'. I already said so."
"Car?"
"I'm only asking, because last time we played, you said it wasn't 'car', and then at the end you told me it actually was a car, just 'not the one that you meant'..."
"Which was news that Daddy didn't take very well, if I recall..."
"It is not 'car'. We already had 'car' last time. Do you give up?"
"Cloud?"
"No."
"Car?"
"No. Stop saying that. It is not 'car'!"
"OK, we give up."
"It is 'camera'."
"Camera? Camera? Really?"
"Oh, well done. That's an excellent word, sweetheart."
"Where was there a camera?"
"At home."
"Oh, for the love of..."
"Shhh, now. It's your turn."
"I don't want a turn. I'm driving."
"Get on with it."
"Something beginning with 'C'..."
"Car?"
"Oh, come on, say it properly..."
"Oh, for Heavens sake! Fine. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with 'C'..."
"Car?"
"Yes. Well done. Your turn."
"You can't do that! We had 'car' already. That is cheating."
"Cheating? You think I'm cheating...? When you just had 'camera'?"
"Do another one!"
"Unbelievable..."
"Yes, play properly."
"God. Okay, okay..I spy with my little eye, something beginning with 'R'..."
"Rabbit?"
"Rabbit? No. There's no rabbits here..."
"Rhinoceros?"
"Rhinoceros? Rhinoceros? Can you actually see a rhinoceros?"
"Is it 'road'?"
"Yes. Well done."
"I'm seeing a pattern here. Are you just saying the first thing you can see immediately in front of you?"
"No, because then 'R' would be 'red mist', wouldn't it?"
"You're not really trying very hard..."
"That's right, and do you know why? Because I'm driving. I don't know if you've noticed, but in front of me is this sort of wheel, that I keep turning left and right, and what's actually happening is that it's making the car go where I point it..."
"I swear, sometimes it's all I can do to not to slap you upside the head..."
"I'm driving. I have to concentrate."
"The light is red. We're stationary at the moment..."
"Is 'R' for red light, Daddy?"
"Rabbit?"
"Yes, fine, OK, turns out it was 'rabbit' after all. One just magically appeared in the footwell. Well done. Your go."
"Where? Where is there a rabbit? I can't see a rabbit..."
"It's your sisters turn now, darling..."
"But I want to see the rabbit..."
"Shhh, now. Let's just play. Come on sweetie, your turn..."
"I spy...little eye...something beginning with...tree."
"Tree? Beginning with 'tree?'.."
"Yes, tree."
"Is it 'tree'?"
"Yes! Tree! It is 'tree'! Well done."
"That's not right! It can't start with the thing it is! That's CHEATING!"
"Will. You. Please. STOP. SHOUTING!"

(I've wanted to do a post that was 'dialogue only' for a while now, but my apologies to those reading via email subscription, who I suspect have no highlight colours to help them determine who's who...though it may well read better that way, I can't tell...)

Princesses and poor men.

Wedding anniversary night. Nine whole years married, despite me clearly having a series of debilitating character flaws that would have caused most women to throw their hands up in despair and head for the hills, long, long before we started picking out china patterns. My wife not only remains married to me, but also claims to intermittently enjoy it - which either says a great deal about her superhuman levels of patience, tolerance and forgiveness, or my truly startling prowess in the bedroom. It's a tough call, but I'll let you make your own minds up.
We have celebrated the event by really pushing the boat out: we have 'enjoyed' a really pretty middling takeaway curry and had a good sneer at Surallen's Calvalcade of Business Idiots (i.e The Apprentice). We have then done what every married couple with young children does when given the chance: gone to bed for a good hard sleep.
Sleep is sadly not arriving, however, because I have drunk most of a bottle of wine and am feeling 'a bit chatty', and because the curry its working its dubious magic and I am breaking wind, really quite dramatically, at intervals of around 3-7 minutes.
I am also occasionally giggling at the noise I am making. She really is a very lucky woman.
"Nine years ago today, I was being treated like a princess. Look at me now..." she says sadly into the dark.
"Wow, did you hear that one?" I interrupt. "It sounded just like a duck quacking..."
"Like a princess..." she reiterates, a touch manically.
"You still get treated like a princess..." I retort automatically, but without much conviction, as this is topic of conversation we have explored many times in the past and I cannot ever remember it ending well.
"Huh" she snorts. "Oh yes, just like a princess. Yesterday a child came into the toilet while I was sitting there, and forced herself onto my lap. I had to pee with a toddler bouncing on my legs. I bet that doesn't happen in Buckingham Palace..."
"You should have locked the door."
"If I lock the door they pound on it and howl, like rabid coyotes...what is that ungodly smell?"
"Amazing, isn't it? I've shocked even myself with that one..."
"Like a princess" she says, like mantra, and I can hear her fists clenching and unclenching in the dark. "Like a princess. Like a princess..."

Truth is, dignity is in short supply for everybody round here. This was ably demonstrated to me when my eldest daughter decided she wanted to join me in the bath this week. It was grim. I blame her mother, who has carefully instilled in both our girls the idea that the male body, and in particular the unique aspect of it, are subjects of universal hilarity that should be treated with both ridicule and utter contempt. This does not not mean, though, that she did not have questions...
"Daddy..." she asks, as I was towelling myself dry "...what are those things?"
I sigh exasperatedly. Not this again, I thought. Last time we went to the swimming baths and got changed in a family changing cubicle, both girls chanted "Wi-lly! Wi-lly! Wi-lly!" for so long and at such a volume that I was seriously worried that somebody might call Social Services, who would then be waiting outside when we opened the cubicle door.
"You know what that is." I say, crossly, trying to close the subject down.
"No, not your stupid willy" she says disdainfully. "The ugly things behind it."
I cover myself protectively with the towel. I realise that an explanation should probably be forthcoming, but am not quite sure what to say - primarily because, although we have decided on innocuous words for a 5-year old to use when describing other parts of the anatomy, we have not had the foresight to think of one for these particular appendages.
"They are my... (What? What? Come on, think, you can't say 'balls', she'll say it to her teacher)...my hurty things. They are the bits that hurt Daddy when you run into him. Or that time when you hit him with the broom. Or that other time, when Mummy tried to throw Daddy the remote control..."
"Oh" she says, clearly feigning understanding (which is just fine with me). Sadly, there is more she wants to know.
"Do all men have them?
"Yes, that's right. They do."
There is a pause.
"Even poor people?" she asks.

I've thought about it a lot since, and I still don't understand what the underlying logic was to her question. I love the idea though - if you follow it through, it could suggest that the ownership of a full pair was something of a status symbol, a mark of honour, something to be admired.
If only that were true. I can say with absolute certainty that it isn't the case in my house...

Woodpeckers, sharks and Songanomics

I am asleep, enduring a hideous dream whereby, through a series of freakish accidents, I have been mistakenly sent into the G20 summit in place of Gordon Brown and not only have to fake an understanding of world economics but also his Scottish accent.
It is not going well: people keep asking me "Well, what do you think, Gordon?" and all I can do is shrug and say "Och, I dunnae.." in the most unconvincing way possible, while they all look at me with increasing suspicion.
"But Gordon, people are losing their jobs by the thousand..." says Barack Obama.
"And zeir 'omes.." adds Sarkosy, with a touch of Gallic menace.
"Hoots! Dinnae fash, I'll think o' sommat..." I say, while a bead of nervous sweat flops from my brow and stains the silk of my Labour Party HQ tie. It is a relief when a bright flash of green darts over the heads of the armed security personnel guarding the doorway, and a woodpecker suddenly lands on my shoulder. It begins to peck incessantly at my head.
"Excuse me" I tell the massed ranks of world leaders. "I must just deal with this..."
"Wake up, Daddy..." says the woodpecker.
I open my eyes. I am lying in bed on a Saturday morning, with the curtains blowing in the breeze. My youngest daughter has climbed onto the bed next to me, and is rapping on the side of my head with her tiny knuckles.
"Wake up, Daddy" she repeats. "I am here to rescue you."
"You....are?" I ask. I look at her in some confusion. She is wearing a pair of bright orange swimming goggles, an inflatable rubber ring, and nothing else.
"Yes" she nods. "From the sharks. We are going swimming."
There is a long, long pause while I gaze into her goggled face.
"Am I still dreaming ?" I finally ask, in genuine confusion.
"No, you all awake now" she says, happily. "I saved you."
"From the....sharks?" I ask, stupidly peering under the duvet to look for predatory fish.
"Yes", she nods, slipping down from the bed before announcing: "Going to save Mummy now."
At this point, as our local Naked Rescue Force Ranger (Ocean Division) leaves, her sister enters the room, jingling a plastic moneybox. She stands at the side of the bed and comes straight to the point.
"I will sing you a song" she informs me, "If you give me some money."
"Good morning..." I manage.
She frowns in mild annoyance.
"Good morning" she tuts. "Daddy, I will sing you a song if you give me some money."
It is clear from her tone that early morning pleasantries are to be considered at best irrelevant, and at worst an intolerable barrier to commerce. Times are tough in our household; I realise that everyone is feeling the effects of the worldwide financial meltdown, but we also have to deal with a five-year old who has discovered (and then wholeheartedly embraced) the concepts of money, trade and rampant consumerism.
"What songs do you know?" I ask, reaching for my jeans, and dying a little inside when I see her face brighten visibly at the soft clink of coins in the front pocket.
"Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?" she offers.
"What else?"
"The La-la-la song?"
"Is that the one when you just sing 'La-la-la' to whatever tune comes into your head?"
"Yes."
"Uh-huh. What else?"
"Twinkle Twinkle Little Rabbit."
"How does that one go?"
"It sounds like 'Twinkle Twinkle', but instead it is about a little rabbit."
"I see. Have you changed anything else? Does it still rhyme?
"No - it is just the same, but instead of 'star' I say 'rabbit'.
"Well, OK. In that case, I will have one 'La-la-la' song, please."
She pretends to clear her throat and then sings the 'La-la-la' song. Somewhat inevitably, on this occasion it turns out to be to the tune of 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star'.
"Very good" I say, rooting the loose coins out of my pocket. What little change I have all looks to be worryingly like high-denomination coins, so I have to do my best to hide it from her. Fortunately, I spy a lone twenty pence piece, and with the deftness of a ninja extricate it from my clenched fist without it clinking against any other coins.
"Here you go" I say, handing it over. "Well done."
"Thank you very much" she says.
There is a pause. She looks at me expectantly.
"Yes?" I ask.
"Mummy always buys three songs" she says.
"Oh, does she?"
"Yes. And she said you would buy three songs as well."
"Well, of course she did. And we can't argue with your mother, can we now?"
"No?" she says tentatively,.
"No. There's so little point, after all..." I mutter, in the resigned voice of a man who is looking at the very real possibility of having to pay at least £1.70 to endure three slightly different variations of the song 'Twinkle Twinkle' before his breakfast. "But the thing is, I haven't got any money left..."
She looks at my tightly clenched hand with clear skepticism. She is, after all, her mother's daughter, which means she has a full range of finely honed senses for detecting my own particular brand of bullshit.
"Where has your money gone?" she asks.
"I don't know. Perhaps the sharks took it?"
"Don't be silly, Daddy. There are no sharks in bed."
"No, not now, there isn't. Your sister rescued me from them...."
"Da-deeeeee...." she whines.
"I haven't got any more coins. Honest..." I lie.
She thinks about this.
"You can owe me" she decides.

Podge, buns, whales and a doughnut.

It is my turn to give the girls their breakfast.
This is long overdue; I have somehow managed to evade this responsibility for weeks on end, but my wife made a specific point of asking me the night before if I would get up and give the girls their breakfast in the morning. She also made a point of interpreting the noncommittal grunting noise I made in reply (I kind of said "Hnngh?" with a deliberate upward, questioning inflection, so it could really have meant anything) as complete acquiescence to her request, and has selfishly gone off to shower herself - which is how I come to find myself standing in the dining room wearing ill-fitting pyjama bottoms and a concerned frown.
Both of my children are sitting at the table, looking at me with a kind of surly, barely repressed rage - this is because the only way I could achieve the miraculous feat of getting them up to the table to eat was by turning the television off and threatening to throw the remote control out of the window if they didn't sit down, right now, immediately, STOP whining.
The little one looks particularly mutinous. She glares directly at me while drumming on the table with her 'Rupert the Bear' teaspoon, saying nothing, but thumping out an angry irregular rhythm that suggests approaching war. BaddabaddaBAP. BaddabaddaBAP.
"What do you want for breakfast, then, my little rays of morning sunshine?" I ask (because I strongly feel you are never too young to learn to appreciate sarcasm).
"Television", says the eldest, showing that the sarcasm is in fact coming along nicely.
"Television is not a foodstuff" I clarify.
"Hot cross bun, then..." she says, looking mournfully out the window and refusing to turn her head, in a way that suggests her day is already shaping up to be full of disappointment, and it is only 7.15.a.m...
"OK, a hot cross bun..." I say, with a remorseful sigh. The sigh is because I have prepared hot cross buns for her before, and it is a lengthy, hateful process. Despite my best efforts, I am still not entirely sure of the arcane acceptance criteria that she applies to determine whether said bun is suitable for consumption. I think the rules that apply are as follows:

1. The bun can be eaten hot or cold, but no preference will be expressed as to the required temperature on any given occasion until serving time, whereupon if you have guessed incorrectly she will simply refuse to eat it.
   
2. Fortunately, if her preference is for a cold hot cross bun (yes, serving food to my daughter involves oxymorons) it must be served uncut and unbuttered, so you can start off by simply taking one out of the packet and handing it to her, and she will then either eat it without complaint or throw it back in disgust.
   
3. If it is the latter reaction, it's because on this occasion she desires a hot hot cross bun. The next ten minute could therefore be very trying, so at this point it is wise to refamiliarise yourself with the handy 'hot-cross-bun-preparation flowchart' that is taped to the wall next to the toaster.
   
4. The bun must be sliced horizontally and toasted on setting 3 (all other settings will render the bun inedible) with the newly exposed bun innards facing outward, towards the toaster's heating elements (any other toasting position will render the bun inedible).
   
5. The bun must be buttered, but quickly - if you are too tardy with the buttering, the bun will lose too much heat and will not fully melt the butter (and if any butter remains unmelted at the time of serving the bun is rendered inedible).
   
6. Putting the bun in the microwave for ten seconds to melt any unmelted butter is considered cheating, and will render the bun inedible.
7. It must be presented on a plate (serving it in a bowl will render it inedible), but it must be the right choice of plate (plate choice will change daily, on a random basis, and the incorrect choice of plate will render the bun inedible).
8. The final hurdle is bun presentation. Toss a coin to decide if today she would like the halves of the bun stacked one on top of each other, or left sitting side-by side. The wrong choice here will, naturally, render the bun inedible...

...hence the despondent sigh at her choice. Frankly, when preparing hot cross buns for breakfast for my five-year old, it really is anybodies guess as to which runs out first: the hot cross buns or my patience. I turn to my youngest daughter.
"And what about you? What would you like?"
"Podge" she says.
"Pardon?"
"Podge."
I involuntarily suck in my stomach. This appears to be an exciting new low in parent/daughter relations.
"Don't call me that, it's rude."
"Podge."
"Stop it! Just tell me what you want for breakfast!"
"Podge! Podge. Podge!"
Her sister turns back from her contemplation of the garden. "She means 'porridge'..." she explains.
"Yes, podge!" insists the little one.
"Ah." I say.
"She is too little to say 'porridge' properly."
"Yes, yes, I understand that. I thought she meant something else. I thought she was being rude."
"Why?"
"Doesn't matter. You cannot have any porridge" I announce.
"No podge? Why?"
"Because we haven't got any", I lie (the truth being that I loathe the stuff and can't stand making it).
"Want Daddy's crunchy breakfast" she immediately decides instead.
This is the price I pay for my deceit. 'Daddy's crunchy breakfast' is a costly, sultana-packed cereal full of honey-soaked nut clusters. I am very partial to it and dislike sharing - primarily because it seems that whenever I want some, all that is left in the packet is a sad yellow sultana-free dust because my children have eaten all the good stuff. Nonetheless, it is a reasonable price to pay for not having to make porridge.
A short while later, we are all enjoying our breakfast: Eldest has deigned to eat the second of the hot cross buns I toasted for her, while I have settled with eating the one she first rejected. Youngest is cheerfully scattering my special, high-end, expensive breakfast cereal around her chair and across the table while I bite back my resentment. Peace reigns. It is short-lived.
"Daddy, have you heard about the whales?" asks the eldest.
"Whales?"
"They are beautiful creatures..." she says, in the manner of someone reciting a script.
"Mm-hmm" I say
"But they are all going to come up on the land soon."
"What?"
"The whales. They are going to come and get us. The ice will melt and they will come on the land instead. So we have to turn the lights off to stop that happening."
"To stop the whales?"
"Yes. We have to keep them in the sea, or they will come and get us."
"By...by turning the lights off?"
"Yes. And the red light on the television."
"Who told you this, sweetheart?"
"Mrs. Brown."
This takes some thinking about. It appears that the eco-message she learnt at school about the melting icecaps and the resulting threat that poses to sea life has somehow transmuted in her head from 'how to save the planet' into 'how to prevent the menace of whale invasion'. I am not quite sure how to reset her expectations here, and decide it is too early in the morning to try.
"Well," I say lamely. "We'll just turn the lights out every day then."
"Oh no, just for one day is enough. Just for Eco-day. That will keep them in the sea."
"No, I think we have to do it every day."
"Every day?
"Yes. Every day. All the time. Just one day is not enough. If the ice melts and the planet floods..."
"...then the whales will come? The whales will come and get us?"
"No, no. Look, the thing about the whales, what I think Mrs Brown meant was ..."
"Turn the light out! TURN THE LIGHT OUT!"
At this point, the little one decides she has had enough breakfast, and it's time get down to the serious business of picking fights. She points at me with her spoon.
"Daddy," she says in the voice of someone making an important announcement. "You are a doughnut."
I sigh.
God, I think, she's really taking her time in that shower...

A cat, a puppy, and a pair of idiots...

I walk in through the front door after a long day. As I hang my coat up, I hear the thud of tiny little feet, and my youngest daughter, now two and a half, stomps the length of the hall towards me from the kitchen.
I am often struck, at moments like this, in just how different she is from her elder sister. Our eldest is shy and restrained, not prone to showing affection and often not that keen to admit when she wants to receive it - she will, at most, lean against your hip in an offhand way when she is feeling particularly tender, but will do so in such a way as to suggest that she is slightly tired and you are merely conveniently positioned as something for her to rest up against. Sometimes I think she is like a cat: cool, detached and mysterious, giving nothing away, ostensibly happy to share your house and your dinner and even the sofa, but who subtly lets you know that you may only tickle its ears when it suits them for you to do so...
By contrast, the little one is like a bouncy puppy, open and affectionate, with whatever emotion she is feeling at any particular moment written large on her face. She is always demanding to be picked up and hugged, showering you with kisses at bedtime, and rushing at you every time you come through the front door. The last of these is a joy for me, and as she rushed towards me I crouch down with my arms open wide. She skids to a halt in front of me.
"Hello sweetheart" I say.
"Hello, idiot" she replies.
There is a pause. Ah, this is new, I think. I try again.
"Hello, sweetheart."
"Idiot," she says gleefully. "You are an idiot."
"You mustn't say that word to Daddy. It's not nice."
"Idiot."
"Stop it. Now."
"Idiot."
I step into the front room. My wife and eldest daughter are huddled on the sofa hugging their knees, while something with pastel hues and soft melodies plays on the television. There is a palpable air of tension in the room.
As I stand in the doorway, the youngest pushes her way between my legs and marches into the room.
"Idiot" she says over her shoulder.
"I see she has learned an exciting new word today?" I ask my wife.
"We are not talking about" she replies, through gritted teeth. "We are ignoring it. We are ignoring it, until that she decides it is not worth saying, because it is no longer getting to me any more."
"Oh, really? How is that working out?"
"Idiot" calls a little voice.
"Not great, so far."
"No, I thought I could sense that."
"You are an idiot."
"Where did she learn this?"
"I am not quite sure.." replies my wife, with a meaningful look at our eldest, who goes into her best sphinx impression, and suddenly seems transfixed by the TV and mysteriously unaware of all that is going on around her.
I sink into the chair and nod at the television. "Well, she certainly didn't learn it from 'In the night garden'..."
"Hello, idiot..."
"She's too young to understand. She has no idea what the word means..."
"Yes, I realise that."
Three of us sink into silence. The fourth marches up and down the length of the sofa, pointing at the rest of us in turn and saying "You're an idiot. You are an idiot. Idiot. You idiot.."
I put up with this for a full ten seconds before clearing my throat.
"I have further questions..." I announce.
"Go on..." says my wife.
"Why is she naked, except for her welly boots? Because I have to say, I might find this a bit easier to bear if she wasn't. It kind of makes it extra patronising."
"Idiot, Daddy."
"She asked to take her clothes off, because she was hot. It's nearly bath time, so I thought it was OK."
"I see. And the boots?"
"She didn't explain. She just went out into the hall and came back into the room wearing them."
"Did you ask her about them?"
"Yes. See if you can guess what she said...?"
"Idiot!"
At this point I snap. "Stop it! Stop calling us idiots! It is not a nice word, and I have had enough. I am not an idiot, and you are the one marching up and down in a pair of pink boots with your bottom out..."
Silence falls for a few seconds.
"Upsie-daisy..." burbles the TV
"Bottom!" says our eldest, starting to giggle. "You said bottom. Bottom! Bot-bot!"
"Idiot!" laugh the youngest.
My wife draws her hands slowly down her face and sighs,
"We should have wine with dinner," I suggest to her. "Lots and lots of wine..."

More seasonal retail misery

(A belated post, started some weeks ago, but only finished now)

What with the Christmas shopping, and then the January Sales, I've recently had plenty of opportunity (much as I did about this time last year), to remind myself just how hateful the retail experience can be. This time around, my children are bigger, more aware of what's going on, and hence more vocal about their own feelings on the process. These feelings appear to be crystallised: when looking at Barbie Princess dolls they are very much pro the modern commercial Christmas, whereas whilst shopping for anything else they whine incessantly without pausing to draw breath. My soundtrack for the 2008/2009 Yuletide Retail Hellhole Experience would be the endless looped repetition of Christmas music but with the lyrics drowned out by children howling atonally that they are tired/hungry/have done a poo.
Our Christmas 'big food shop' (AKA "let's give Tesco all of our hard-earned money for way too much food that we won't eat and will ultimately throw away") warrants further discussion, starting with the truly bizarre idea my wife had about it: she thought it would be 'fun'.
"Fun?" I asked, genuinely taken aback. "Fun?"
"Yes - fun. If you let it, it could be fun. You know - picking out special treats, getting caught up in the festive mood..."
"Ugh. It won't be fun. It will be Hell, only with boxes of dates and tins and Quality Street.."
Of course, it wasn't fun. It was dire. Shopping in supermarket is always dire, but during the holidays it's far, far worse: not only are the stores crammed to capacity, but many of the extra seasonal visitors are people like me, who have been dragged there against there will. This means the crowds are not only unusually large, but also overly resentful - and it only takes a small incident, like somebody else picking up the bag of satsumas that you had your eye on, for things to turn really ugly...
My own experience was not improved by my youngest daughter, who discovered that when seated in the child seat at the front of a trolley that I was pushing, she could easily reach up and gather in her tiny fist both of the drawstrings for the hood on my sweatshirt. She could then suddenly tug hard on these, which would collapse the hood into a tight, painful viewing-port centred around my nose. If the drawstrings were then yanked harder, she could physically drag my hooded face down onto the handle of trolley, forcing me into a bent-double position that enabled her to repeatedly kick me in the chest while I flailed blindly at her. She found this hilarious, (as in fact did many onlookers), though it must be said I got tired of it pretty quickly...
When we finally got into the checkout queue and were told that the average waiting time in the line was approaching an hour, all three of us - both of the children and me - turned mutinous. Sensing a possible impending 'incident', my wife sent me and my charges to the cafe to buy a hot drink and a snack, while she stayed and nobly queued. Sadly, this brilliant plan of distraction failed on two counts: firstly the queue at the cafe was so long and slow-moving that my youngest actually fell asleep in the line while sitting on my feet and leaning on my shins, and secondly, just as we had finally sat down with our drinks, my wife appeared looking flustered, to announce that the shopping had all been rung up on the checkout but she has forgotten her credit card, so could I drop everything and come back and pay? Quickly? Only she had noticed that the people in the queue behind her weren't taking the delay that well...
When we got back to checkout, the man waiting in the queue behind us gave me such a filthy look that I felt compelled to draw out the payment process for as long as possible just to spite him: 'forgetting' my PIN for two attempts, changing the card I used at the last minute, suddenly remembering my loyalty card, pointing out a random item that I decided we hadn't actually put in the trolley and asking for it to be taken off the bill - that sort of thing. He looked apoplectic by the end. I was tempted to smile and nod, and wish him a Merry Christmas as we left, but it seemed a bit much...

My little moonchild

'You get the kids your deserve" runs the old adage, but I'm never quite sure what it means.
Does it mean that if you are an exemplary parent, you get exemplary children? Or does it mean that if you were a little bastard as child, then your children will be little bastards as well, as a kind of karmic revenge for your childhood unpleasantness?
Nobody seems too sure on this, which is surprising, because from almost the moment of conception it seems there are no end of people rushing to offer you unrequested advice on how you should bring your children up, what they would do differently (by which, of course, they mean what they would do better) and what your own specific failings as a parent are. Some also seem to think that by having sired offspring of their own, it gives them an insight into your own children that is somehow better than the 24/7 love, care and concern that you yourself provide. (Perhaps the most stunning example of this was the women who came over to me while I was shopping and told me I was mispronouncing my own daughters name - an act of such brazen effrontery that I was lost for words for a few seconds before pointing that actually, no, after some consideration I was pretty sure I'd got it right, what with me being the one who named her and everything...)
But I digress, and here is where all this is leading: my eldest daughter will not stop mooning me. So if you really do 'get the kids you deserve', I think something has gone wrong, because neither interpretation makes sense: I certainly don't lead by example in this regard, and I'm told I was an insular, prudish child who not only kept his bottom in his trousers at all time but did his best to avoid other people all together, preferring instead the company of either a good book or my extensive selection of original Star Wars figures. Why then, when I'm lying on the sofa on a Sunday morning, does my four-year old think it hilarious to take off her pyjamas and block my view of the television almost completely with her backside?
"Don't do that" I say.
"Bottom", she says, just in case I'd missed the point.
"Put it away" I say.
She wiggles it at me. "Bottom" she repeats.
"Bottom" confirms her sister, watching this performance and nodding.
I flail at the offending article with a cushion, but to no avail. I could actually throw cushions, but past experience tells me that (a) she will find this uncontrollably funny and (b) I will run out of spare cushions long before she runs out of spare bottom.
"Bottom" she taunts. "Bottom. Bot-bot."
"If you keep this up," I warn, "I will write about this on the Internet so that all your friends can read about it when you are a teenager."
"Bot-bot. Bottom."
"There will be a boy you like." I say. "And when you bring him round for tea, I shall sit him down with the 2009 archive and ask him to read it out loud while your face burns crimson..."
She waggles her backside again. "Bot-tom. Bottom" she reiterates.
It's clearly time to up the stakes.
"If you do not put your bottom back in your pyjamas, where it belongs," I announce, "then when we go out for lunch today, you cannot have apple juice. You can only have water."
Now, this may sound like the mildest sanction in the world, but the result is immediate. She stops and looks at me carefully, as if to say: You wouldn't dare, so don't go there.
I glare back, trying to say with my eyes: Oh yes, I went there. I just dropped the 'AJ' bomb. Deal with it...
There is stare-off, during which her bottom remains prominently on display. Finally, she reluctantly pulls up her trousers, before casually announcing: "If you do not give me any apple juice, I will catch you on fire."
I am slightly taken aback by this, but decide that rather than it being an early sign of deeply worrying anti-social and pyromaniac tendencies, it has more to do with the fact that she has just watched 'Finlay the Fire Engine' on CBeebies. However, my inner pedant cannot resist further comment.
"Set me on fire," I say. "Not catch me on fire..."
She gives me look of pure disgust. In retrospect, it may have been deserved.
Later, when I tell my wife about the whole sorry episode, she laughs like drain. I point out the her eldest daughter has now developed a tendency for running butt-naked around the house, giggling. My wife laughs even louder. And then I recall her teaching the girls her patented 'Shake your boom-boom' dance, and the way she treats the sight of my own backside, and it all suddenly becomes very clear: every child has two parents, and in this case, I've got the daughter my wife deserves...