Dad On A Bike

Identity crisis averted - new website available NOW!

2011-01-01T21:44:00.008Z

Don't be a "Sidney-slowcoach". Update your favourites, redirect your browser thinga-me-bob and come join me and my all new, updated ramblings of nothing in particular, almost annoying at times web address at "my dentist loves me".

Or, for an easy life, just click here.

You see how easy I make things for you?

Ooh, by the way, Happy New Year!!

Dad On A Bike sleeps with the fishes ....

2010-03-29T20:21:00.020+01:00

Hmmm... that can't be right. He's starting with a picture?? And what the heck does "JAM" mean anyway??

Also, for the observant amongst you, you will notice that the date stamp for this post is the 29th March; the 4th birthday of this blog. Strange then, that I have not "posted" it until now; the 3rd of April.

Hmm ... what's going on 'ere then??

Relax, o' faithful reader, all will be revealed. I just wanted to briefly mention a couple of things before I get to my main point this evening.

The other night, Joseph and Annabel asked for a 'snack'. As I may have mentioned in the past, this can mean anything from a piece of fruit to a full blown, mini-buffet-on-a-plate and the problem is, I don't exactly know which one until I've placed it down in front of them. Well, to avoid any confusion or argument, I merely ran through a couple of options until their eyes lit up.

"How about some malt bread?"

All eyes lit up, closely followed by them both repeating "malt bread?" as a question and in perfect unison, which led me to believe that I had hit on the perfect choice.

How funny. Just saying the words 'malt bread' brought memories flooding back.

Sunday evenings as a boy would mean one of several things. An early bath, then downstairs in your pyjamas and dressing gown to watch TV with my parents, sandwiches, crisps and a drink. My brother would always have cheese and pickle sarnies with salt and vinegar crisps and I would have peanut butter with cheese and onion crisps. We both had milk to drink.

Our parents would often have whatever seafood was leftover from the day before (usually prawns), but we all had a piece of Mr Kiplings Bakewell Tart for dessert. Not some piddling little piece either, but a quarter each!!!

Stick that in your tooth decaying pipe and smoke it!!

Jumping forward, and I was reminded again the other day, how lucky I am to see the things I see when I'm at work. From the vantage point I have at the top of the school, I look down into Joseph's playground and Annabel's separate playground. Both of them were with their friends, totally oblivious to the other, playing in their own little worlds. Joseph was playing tag (or IT, or catch, or whatever you want to call it), while Annabel was pedalling a tricycle with two friend's on the back, round and round in a tight little circle, both clearly enjoying themselves and without a care in the world.

Which is just how it should be, right?

7 and nearly 5 years old; you're not supposed to have a care in the world.

Anyway, I watched them running, watched them cycling, watched them laughing, watched them hugging their friends, and it made me think of my own friends at primary school. Don't get me wrong, I can barely remember that time, my memories are sketchy at best; I only have snippets, flashbacks almost, of school aged 10 and before.

How times have changes in a generation.

From "mostly caucasian with some non-caucasians" to a complete reversal of the status quo. I almost envy my children, that the world has come to their doorstep, rather than the other way around. My school friend's names (regardless of colour), were Terry, Steven, Alan, Sandra and Suzanne. My children have friends called Wiktor (Polish), Thivaya (Sri Lankan), Sacha (Russian) and Emile (French Guyana). Their school carnival days are full of food I never experienced until I was in my 20's.

In many ways, this is far better - it has made the world smaller for my children. However, I can remember the excitement at travelling abroad and being given spending money in a totally "foreign" currency. Will the Euro hold the same fascination for them as Spanish pesetas, Italian lire or Greek drachma did for me?

I'm thinking not.

Regardless of the size of the world however, I wanted to discuss something altogether different.

For some time now, I've been troubled by something fairly significant, at least as far as my writings here are concerned; my name.

Dad On A Bike.

Hmm .........

I often read back over what I have written and, usually, what I have written makes me smile or at least satisfied that I have managed to get across what I initially set out to convey.

Dad On A Bike; he obviously writes about being a Dad, right? Probably writes about the achievements of his children, how they're doing at school, what it's like watching them grow up.

I read back to the very first posts I wrote; I wasn't sure what I was writing about; anything and everything if truth be told, before I honed it down to what the title of my blog stood for - my life as a Dad, a Dad to two children who were growing up and discovering new and exciting things in the most simplest of places; doing up their first buttons, having a ladybird land on their finger, writing their first letters.

I've been so sure during my writing about it all, that I never stopped to think about it. I just got lost in the fact that I was preserving the seemingly insignificant little milestones for my own failing memory, with the added bonus that people I'd never met, were interested in what I was writing. You've left comments, you've emailed me, you've told me that what I had written had jogged your own memories, that you too remembered this or that as a result of what you have read here. Strangers, as I used earlier, is not a word I honestly associate with many of you.

The problem is, I'm more than just Dad on a bike. The bike rarely gets used anymore anyway but apart from that, I always felt guilty whenever I strayed from the topic matter of being a parent. I know if I go looking for for a food blog and see one with a foodie type title/name, I am less than impressed if it turns out not to be about food at all but about something completely different. How dare they waste my time getting me to look at their inaproppriately named blog!!!

Well, I'm the same.

I'm more than just a Dad. I'm more than just a parent. While being a Dad is the most amazing thing I've ever done, it alone doesn't define who I am. At least, I'm pretty sure it doesn't.

I want to write about other things without feeling bad for my reader. I want to talk about random stuff and not feel I have to justify it by linking it to a story about my children.

Don't get me wrong, I have enjoyed writing every single one of my posts (all 509 of 'em) and, reading back over them, this blog will have served it's purpose perfectly; to remind me of the little stuff I could so easily have forgotten.

There is, however, another reason for me calling time on DOAB. Although I am planning to resurface in another guise, I need to take a break from blogging. Not a long break of course; my future self would regret not having the brilliant memory markers which my blog provides. I already have another blog named and ready to go, more generic than this name, allowing me more freedom to write without guilt when I stray from the topic of parenthood. It's already sat there in my profile so go check it out when you're ready. I just can't promise when I'll make an appearance. Not so long that you get fed up and leave for good though, trust me on that.

The thing is, I need to take a break because I've been promising, promising, promising myself to knuckle down and try to ......... well ... never mind that now. I can always report back at a later date depending on how things go.

As you can now see, for the past week I have being doing what I am best at; procrastinating. Procrastinating over how best to approach my last ever post as Dad on a Bike. I have agonised over how to start it, what title to give it, how to end it, and frankly, I still don't know that last bit. I have peppered enough posts with film quotes over the years to know that the title, for all you Godfather fans, could mean only one thing.

That this ends tonight.

So as to not leave any of you too confused, the JAM in the picture at the top of this post is simple; an acronym for Joseph, Annabel and Mar ....... nah, I think I'll leave M as mysterious as I always have; JAM is enough.

I will leave you with a picture that I have already used once before (shock, horror). I took the shot and used it here way back at the end of July 2007 but it means SO much more for what I want to say right now.

From the left, the shadows are my good self, Annabel, Joseph and M.

I know perfectly well that the lives of parents and their offspring are never straightforward and hopefully, the lines of communication between my children and me will always be open. Regardless of what the future brings, hopefully Joseph and Annabel will read these pages one day and see that their Old Dad thought the absolute world of them. They might even admire the fact that he sat up on his keyboard and relentlessly typed, with his permanently cold hands, something that was really quite beautiful in it's simplicity.

I'm not really sure what else I can say. I appear to be procrastinating even in my saying goodbye.

But it's tough. Letting go of something special, that you know you won't be seeing ever again.

Still, I know I've got to be strong, be proud, be a man about it.

If you've stumbled across these pages briefly, thank you for stopping in, I hoped you enjoyed your time here. If you've been reading with me for a while, however, I guess this is it.

I would like to say a quick word of thanks to my smashing kids. Thanks guys!! You have provided me with the material to sit and write for hour after hour, week after week, year after year, at a dull computer screen. It was even entertaining enough for people we don't even know to sit and read!!!

A very quick thanks also to the lovelier than lovely M, who never once batted an eyelid when I uttered the immortal words, "I'm just gonna blog for a while love", before disappearing upstairs for anything between 15 minutes and the entire evening.

Goodbye Dad On A Bike; we've spent some quality time together. Wish me all the luck for the future ol' chap!

"Like tears in the rain ........ it's time ... to die".

Jamie Cullum? Your days are numbered!

2010-03-25T20:17:00.007Z

Many people around the world - boastful people - shout to the entire world of their small, insignificant achievements. They want to bask in their own glory of mediocrity, to force their pathetic triumph's down the throats of those less able, less successful, less handsome than themselves. To triumphantly trumpet their talents to all who will listen.

The conceited fools.

On an entirely different note, I have (rather brilliantly), completed my first book of piano lessons already, in record time no less, according to my teacher at any rate. Actually, he never said any such thing, but I'm positive no-one else out there can have gotten through it as quickly as I did, for crying out loud!

Did I not mention I am learning to play the piano? I'm sure I must've mentioned it once or half a dozen times already, no?

Regardless, I have finished Book 1 and have enjoyed every single minute of moving from being a complete novice, to being able to coax real music from my most favourite instrument of all. To think that I waited 40 years before doing something about it, ignoring a real, bona fide yearning.

Oh well, every journey starts with a single footstep, as they say.

What was funny, was that my very clever teacher (with his fabulous Russian accent), turned to the last page and said to me, "umm ..... I can see there is only one certificate, so umm ..... (uncertainty in his long pause), so I think we will keep it for Joseph, rather than give it to you, is it right?"

I laughed out loud, which he obviously took as agreement.

I mean, as if I'd want a silly certificate at the end of a book, thus depriving my son of it, heh heh.

And anyway, I can always tippex out Joseph's name at a later date and put my own name in!!

Chortle!!

"Here they come. A-a-a-a-a-and there they go .....!"

2010-03-23T23:34:00.008Z

It's official; I am a super recogniser.

Okay, when I say "official", what I really mean to say is, "I have decided ..."

Scoff you may, but I am telling you, as I read the above page (and other web-pages like it), I thought to myself that I could easily be classed as one of these 'recognisers'. Names I do fairly well with but with faces, I would say I remember 99.9% of every 'face' I've ever met, however fleeting.

I sometimes wonder, however, about faces from my very distant past? People from my primary school, for example. Would I recognise them confidently as I think I would? When I see Joseph and Annabel interacting with their friend's at school, I find it difficult to imagine that there will come a point where they won't remember those same children in years to come, with whom they spent day after day, learning with, playing with, arguing with. Of course, Annabel is too young at the moment but Joseph is the example I'm focussing on here.

I remember only brief snapshots from my time at primary school.

I can remember squirting water from a drinking fountain once, squirting it ar anyone who retying to walk past me and into the playground, finding it hilarious. What I didn't find so funny, was not seeing my very large Headmaster walking up behind me and seeing everything I'd been doing. Not did I see his enormous arm swing his enormous hand round in an arc until it connected incredibly hard with my backside, actually lifting me off the ground!

"I'll stop squirting it now then, shall I Sir?"

I remember getting extra pieces of cake after lunch from one of the dinner ladies with whom I walked to school. (There was no down-side to that little treat, let me tell you!!)

I can remember playing that wonderful game of kiss chase, running ever-so-slightly slower for certain girls to catch me, not to mention running like hell when other certain girls were within grabbing distance.

These brief memories came flooding back today, courtesy of seeing my kids from my usual fantastic vantage point; out of the main window on the top floor of the school.

Annabel was being chased by her little train of female friends in her little sectioned off corner of the playground, screeching with delight that she was pretty much the centre of attention.

I watched Joseph playing football for a short while before striking up a conversation with two of the girls in his class. Thanks to the school being involved in a healthy living project, lots of children are wearing pedometers and this was obviously the topic being discussed.

Joseph lifted his shirt, the three of them looked down at where the little machine was hooked on his trousers and then Joseph broke into a comedy run, arms pumping, head thrown back laughing, the two girls chasing him.

Thankfully, there was no kissing involved. I could just see the Headteacher calling me down for a "chat".

"It's about your son ..... "

Sultan of Swing

2010-03-18T17:45:00.008Z

Is there anybody out there who actually likes being a beginner at something? I'm not talking about the thrill of learning or doing something new - that in itself is amazing.

No, I'm talking about actually standing up and saying, "erm, not entirely sure what this is all about I'm afraid! ' not all that confident on the topic matter."

Nah. Me neither.

But please note, if you will, the word "beginner" on the image below (pause to scroll down for a look and ...... welcome back).

Personally, I don't like being the 'new kid on the block' when it comes to just about anything but thanks to one man, I perused many a shelf in the Oxford Street Virgin Megastore (yes, yes, a while ago) before purchasing this CD.

I knew pretty much none of the names of the artists on the CD, ditto the names of the songs, but buy it I did. My reason for this blind faith purchase was simple; a person I didn't know had played several similar songs (similar insofar as he played songs from the same continent which I admit, is rather vague when talking about somewhere as vast as Africa or Asia) on his radio show which I happened to be listening to.

And this person made these strange recordings sound so colourful, so exotic .....

so .....

so .......

so desirable ..... that I just had to get in on the act, I had to learn more about our world of music.

Well, that CD purchase was quite a while ago - early 2003 - and I am pleased to say that my world music knowledge has come on somewhat and, as is often the case, one's early foray into an unknown world seems a little embarrassing which, I admit, is probably just plain conceited; we all have to start somewhere, right?

And if you're anything like me, you always feel slightly indebted to the person who introduced you to whatever it was, however long ago it was.

With that in mind, I would like to pay tribute to BBC Radio 3 and World Service presenter Mr Charlie Gillett, who died in the early hours of this morning. (read here) (and here)

At the risk of sounding condescending, "y' done proper good, lad".

Y' done proper good.

Oh, and thank you for making it all sound incredible.

Sweet dreams Charlie.

Vacancy - only the resilient need apply!

2010-03-14T23:57:00.009Z

It's a (bloody) tough job, but someone's gotta do it.

Better make it a woman then!!

Happy Mother's Day to the lovely M, my Mum and my Monster-in-law!

I s'pose you do kinda deserve a day of doing nothing!!!

I s'pose.

Roll camera and ... cue tumbleweed ...

2010-03-13T23:55:00.010Z

I think I've been scarred for life. Not physically, but mentally.

I sometimes think back to last year when a rotten, long-lasting cold resulted in me losing my sense of smell and taste and it put me in a kind of mini-panic.

Can't taste??

Can't TASTE???

When the cold finally cleared up, I entered a brief honeymoon period where I savoured every flavour I encountered, appreciating the fact that I could indeed, taste food and drink again.

Ooh, it were 'orrible!

The thing is, although I've grown to love and enjoy food, I don't consider myself to have a particularly refined palate. Sure, I know what I like, know what tastes good for myself, but I don't possess the taste buds to pick out a subtle flavour of something in a large dish of something, if you see what I mean.

I only have to watch TV at the moment, with it's plethora of foodie programmes, to have this fact rubbed in my face.

M on the other hand, does have the palate for this task.

So does, it seems, my children; Joseph in particular.

Of course, I love the fact that they have my cooking, which I would class as "typically European" as well as, occasionally, M's mother's cooking, which is typically Middle Eastern.

Thankfully, they love all food but I am also pleased that, in the multi-cultural society in which we live (not to mention the very culturally diverse school which they attend), their understanding of food is not limited to meat and two veg'.

This love of food was borne out in a little game that Annabel told me her and her friends played last week. They were playing the "A .. B .. C .." game of food and each took it in turns to say a food that began with the letter which corresponded to their turn.

Although Annabel only told me her choice of food, I imagined that the game went something like this.

Friend 1 says "A is for apple"

Friend 2 says "B is for banana"

Friend 3 says "C is for cake"

Friend 4 says "D is for dumplings"

Annabel says "E is for eggs"

Friend 1 says "F is for fish"

Friend 2 says "G is for gingerbread"

Friend 3 says "H is for ham"

Friend 4 says "I is for ice cream"

Annabel says "J is for jadara"

(screech of brakes) "An-n-nd STOP!"

(All heads turn to look at Annabel)

Apart from the fact that she has misunderstood the name of the dish, no-one in her little circle of friends would know what she was talking about.

As is often the case, middle eastern dishes (thanks to being written in Arabic), are often open to personal interpretation when it comes to:

a) their spelling and

b) the cooking process.

The "m" at the start of mujadara, whilst not exactly silent, is used more in the "m-m-M-M" sense of the word, as opposed to the "m" used in "mud".

Capito?

Anyway, poor thing, she went on to explain that no-one knew what she was talking about, even though she clearly explained to them exactly what it was.

This was a brave thing to do, in my book, as their are few things as unattractive to the unfamiliar eye, as a bowl of chilled mujadara.

Puréed lentils, rice and caramelised onion, left to warm up after an afternoon in the fridge doesn't really make for a pretty dish.

This does not, however, stop it form being my favourite meal of all time.

Closely followed by the above 'bachelor-type' meal of kibbeh lahme, mankoushe, olives and a nice strong, Belgium beer.

Art attack (part II)

2010-03-12T23:24:00.013Z

Each morning, depending on the time, my smashing children have the enviable task of deciding whether they want to go straight to their classrooms to see if they can 'help their teacher', or come to the top corridor with me and draw a picture while I get ready for my day ahead.

More often than not they choose to stick with me and draw a picture. Many of these pictures are dished out to various colleagues of mine as 'gifts' but, perhaps obviously, paintings by my children don't exactly have the same meaning to them and they do to me.

Natch.

Anyway, I have had a little pile of them building slowly but surely on my desk and, after removing the rushed ones and the 'wasn't really in the mood to draw' ones, I thought I'd post a few here for your viewing pleasure.

Underwater scene

Jungle-ish scene

Annabel's robot

Annabel's volcano

Joseph's robot (I love the fact that it's a happy robot)

If you ask nicely enough, they might even make one for you!

"I know, it's only rock 'n' roll ... but I like it"

2010-03-08T22:53:00.007Z

As if Saturday wasn't overflowing with the beautiful sounds of choirs singing, yesterday was shaping up to offer much of the same, albeit in a very different environment.

Joseph (and his fellow choir mates) had been invited to contribute to a Christmas CD due out near ... erm ... Christmas, believe it or not. Apparently, some chap had approached the lady who oversees the choir and she was more than happy to accept.

So it was that we all found ourselves driving over to North West London to the world famous RAK studios, where they sang three carols and got to hang out" in the recreation lounge in true rock star fashion. There was a pool table (which, I admit, the Dad's commandeered), a full size table tennis table as well as a full buffet lunch for the eating of. I took the liberty of taking a peek in the fridges, fully expecting to see champagne and beer but all I found was fresh coffee, orange juice and a pack of organic butter.

What an opportunity. Not many people get to see inside a place like that, let alone record in it!

The nice bit was seeing all the framed gold discs on the walls with artists and songs I knew very, very well.

The not-so-nice bit was seeing the years in which those songs were released.

Oh boy, I am getting OLD!

Well, old-er at any rate. Today marks the passing of yet another year for my good self.

Happy birthday to me, hip hip hoo-bleeding-ray!!!!

"Oliver Cromwell lay buried and dead ..."

2010-03-06T21:40:00.013Z

Firstly, there was karate (which I seem to remember being rather good at).

Then I tried boxing (which I didn't enjoy so much - who in their right mind likes getting biffed in the face repeatedly??).

Finally, there was football and running (in case the first two options failed).

None of these sporting past-times ever lasted however. I seemed to enjoy most things as a child until it meant taking it to a competitive level and that's when I would go off the idea of continuing whatever it was that, up to that point, I had enjoyed doing wholeheartedly. My nerves would get the better of me and I would back out, excuses at the ready. Unfortunately, my nerves have pretty much been getting the better of me ever since.

Of course, I can get up and talk in front of a large group of people - like a class of 40 kids for example - but even when I'm doing that, I'm painfully aware that I'm not a natural speaker. It's different if I'm acting the clown or saying something funny/silly/pointless though - I always feel comfortable if I'm in the limelight for that reason.

I also remember playing the drums in the school choir. I loved playing the drums even though I was only ever reasonably ok at them. Apart from a couple of very minor parts in various school concerts however, the worry about being in the spotlight made me shy away even from those.

All of the above pursuits usually ended with me looking like the proverbial rabbit caught in the headlights of a very heavy and fast moving vehicle; rooted to the spot, unable to move or function properly, heart beating hard in my chest, hearing my own blood coursing through the veins in my head.

Time is, as they say, a great healer (or maybe it's just that as you get older, you forget more easily) and those heart-stopping moments seem to hardly have happened at all but, if I screw my eyes up tight and really concentrate, I can remember how crippling and debilitating that fear was.

Of course, I now know it was my body going into "fight or flight" mode and, as much as I hate to admit it, I spent pretty much my entire childhood in "flight" mode; I never really confronted anything. It was easier to walk away and start again.

With this is mind, you can understand how proud I was this afternoon and evening when the small choir that Joseph has been singing with, was invited to sing in a concert of other local choirs and chamber music. I had the foresight to get to the venue early and get settled with a great vantage point (the equivalent of the German's getting the poolside loungers early, I s'pose) and from where I was sat, I could look down on the front pews of the large church, to where Joseph and his fellow singers were sat.

As the church filled up, I was joined by M, her Mum, my parents and Annabel, all wanting to see where Joseph was and how he was feeling. And, pride or no pride, I could tell something was very definitely "up". Looking back I should've picked up on the fact that he was nervous. He had asked several times during the day about his songs, what time were we leaving for the concert, would he be there alone, would I be staying with him and so on.

I could see him fidgeting, looking round and up, scanning the gallery for me and even my smiles and waves back to him wasn't helping. It wasn't until a few minutes later that I realised that he was crying and one of his little female friends next to him was trying to console him.

I ran along the maze of corridors to get me around the church and down the old, dusty stairs to him to find him quite upset, worrying that the final song that all the choirs were going to sing together was fairly new to him and he didn't know all the lyrics.

We spoke and I made him laugh, explaining that sharing the stage with 349 other singers would practically ensure he could stand there picking his nose and no-one would notice, let alone missing a few song words out!!!

He seemed calm (er), so I made my way back to my seat.

The running order stated that his choir would be on second, so I relaxed into my seat as the first choir marched smartly onto the stage. As they were about to start singing, I saw Joseph get up, struggle through to the end of his pew, past his friends, and rush off stage right, heading for the toilets.

It took me a couple of seconds of thinking, "should I go or let him just make it to the loo and back" before I took off, out of my seat once more and along the (by now) familiar corridors and stairs.

I had to walk right through the church, albeit along one side, and I slowed my slow run to a respectful walk, all the while, wondering if I wasn't over-reacting and that surely, Joseph would be absolutely fine.

As I rounded the corner to the toilets, I stopped, completely unprepared for what I saw.

There, door open, sat on a toilet and pulling his T-shirt up, all the while sobbing almost uncontrollably, shoulders jumping and his face red with tears, was my beautiful son, more distressed than I have ever seen him.

I ran to him and knelt down, hugging him and trying to soothe him at the same time.

He had tummy ache (I could see he was scared, nervous), he didn't know the words to the final song (sob), he needed a poo, needed to get back out the before his friend's went on stage (sob), had he missed his turn, he couldn't be too long (sob) .....

He managed to calm down (and he really did need a poo!!) and we rushed to the side door to hear the previous choir still singing. They finished, we went out and sat in the wings, waiting for his choir to be called.

M, it transpired, was scanning the scene below, wondering where (and what) on earth had happened to us both but, as the name of their choir was called and the majority of them strolled out, she saw Joseph join them, perfectly released at just the right moment by yours truly.

And Joseph did himself proud.

You could tell he was one of the newest members; whereas most stood perfectly still, I could make out a slight side to side "rock", his eyes fixed unwavering and unblinking on the conductor. But no matter; he sang, he got all the lyrics right and by their second song, he'd hit his stride and he clearly enjoyed himself.

As I'd promised, when it came for all the performers to sing, you could barely make him out at all, which I think suited him just fine.

But I'll not forget the look on his face when I rounded that corner, not in a million years.

I hope I always make it to him for those times.

But I guess that won't be possible.

Our differing approaches to terror

2010-02-27T21:56:00.006Z

I read an excellent article by Geoffrey Wheatcroft last week that I keep meaning to mention here.

I decided to copy and paste it into the page rather than provide a link 'cos I always think that newspaper pages are usually so full of ad's, that they often detract from the article itself.

It's not a short piece I admit, but very, very worthwhile.

(from the Independent Saturday, 20 February 2010)

Israel "is not a country about aggression and targeted assassination, it's a country about science, hi-tech and shopping malls". This arresting definition was proposed on Channel 4 News on Thursday evening by Rami Igra, a former Mossad agent, although he rather spoiled the effect by what he said later.

In fact, everyone assumes that Mossad did it. The authorities in Dubai believe the Israeli secret service assassinated Mahmoud al-Mabhouh, the Hamas official, last month. The British Government agrees that it was Mossad, or at least wagged a finger at the Israeli ambassador because British citizens' passports stolen in Israel had been used by the hit squad.

And most Israelis, with varying degrees of approval, agree. Igra contradicted himself by adding that the battle line nowadays wasn't the Maginot Line or Stalingrad (not an argument one had recently heard) but the streets of London and Jerusalem, and that in this great conflict "Western civilisation" was obliged to find new methods – "including targeted assassinations".

Not that this was a revelation. For years Israel has openly proclaimed that it will take revenge on those who kill its citizens. Those responsible for the 1972 Munich massacre were all hunted down and killed, along with the odd bystander. The "targeted killing" of suspected terrorists has long been avowed policy. A few years ago, the then deputy prime minister, Ehud Olmert, said he did not exclude the option of assassinating the elected president of the Palestinian Authority.

All of which highlights a blatant double standard, between the treatment of terrorists of different nationalities and hues. The word "racist" is overused, but in this context it applies all too accurately.

Tomorrow evening we can watch the remarkable spectacle of a television programme about Jesus presented by Gerry Adams, the impenitent former leader of the IRA who was responsible for some of its worst atrocities. This is one more case where television companies as well as politicians weigh with two weights and judge with two measures.

Some years ago, the contrarian Belfast journalist John O'Farrell (not a Protestant unionist) was writing about the career of Martin McGuinness, which had taken him from head of the IRA to minister of education. As O'Farrell said, thanks to the Belfast agreement and settlement, "the children of Northern Ireland will have their futures in the hands of a man who, if he were a Serb, would be indicted at The Hague".

Or try another comparison, the respective fate of two terrorist leaders. One is a white Catholic Irishman, the other a dark-skinned Muslim Palestinian; one is asked to present a programme on Jesus, the other is brutally bumped off – an assassination which, like all such by Mossad, will never be publicly condemned by the US. Suppose that, at the height of the IRA violence, Adams and McGuinness had been the objects of "targeted killing" by MI6. It's interesting to speculate what the American reaction would have been.

The British media are sometimes accused of a bias against Israel. But would Channel 4 ask an unrepentant Islamist terrorist who had killed ordinary Israelis to present a programme on the Prophet Mohamed? Or, for that matter, Ratko Mladic to talk about Orthodox Christianity and the Serbian monastic tradition?

This comparison – the question of why some terrorists are more terrorist than others – has indeed been addressed before, by Tony Blair. It was highly pertinent at the time he was doing everything he could to appease the IRA with one hand while the other was waging a savage "war on terror" in the Middle East.

And he addressed it with his usual glib speciousness concealing a feeble case. "I don't think," he said, "you can compare the political demands of republicanism with the political demands of this terrorist ideology we are facing now." Why not? Why is there any difference in kind between the ideologies, as well as the methods, of Adams and al-Mabhouh?

Compare and contrast, as exam papers say. The IRA and its front organisation Sinn Fein want to undo the partition of Ireland that was effected by the creation of a separate province of Northern Ireland in 1920. To that end the IRA deliberately murdered many people, including ordinary Protestants, and that end, if not the means, "is shared by many of our citizens", Blair says, as well as by millions of Irish Americans.

Hamas wants to undo the partition of Palestine that was effected by the creation of a separate state of Israel in 1948. To that end it has deliberately murdered many people, including ordinary Jews. And that end, if not the means, is shared by hundreds of millions of Arabs and Muslims as well as others in Asia and Africa. Why does their support not equally validate the objective?

When Blair spoke he was still prime minister. He has since gone on to highly paid fresh fields and lucrative pastures new. One of his supposed jobs is as envoy to "to promote an end to the [Israeli-Palestinian] conflict in conformity with the road-map", which was one of the justifications with which he previously sold the Iraq war to his deluded followers. He has totally failed in that role, as the eminent Israeli historian Avi Shlaim observes, not least because of "his own personal limitations; his inability to grasp that the fundamental issue in this tragic conflict is not Israeli security but Palestinian national rights". Shlaim adds that this is precisely what has endeared Blair to the Israeli establishment, so that at the very time, a year ago when the people of Gaza were mourning their dead, Blair received an award from Tel Aviv university as "laureate for the present time dimension in the field of leadership", accompanied by a modest cheque for $1m.

As Shlaim says, the award was absurd in view of Blair's "silent complicity in Israel's continuing crimes against the Palestinian people" – but it was no less so in view of his indulgence towards Adams and McGuinness.

But then perhaps all this is too elaborate. It might be that the shade of Mahmoud al-Mabhouh, and for that matter of any of the Taliban men recently extirpated by CIA drones, could contemplate tomorrow night's repulsive programme and simply ask, like Ali G: "Is it 'cos I is black?"

(cover of latest bedside read)

More adventures with dough

2010-02-26T19:34:00.009Z

Before Lord and Lady Parker presented me with my (new) favourite cook book by HFW, my old favourite cook book was The New English Kitchen by Rose Prince (good grief, I'm so fickle).

It isn't really a cook book in the 'recipe-filled' sense of the word; it's more of a guide to sensible shopping, planning ahead etc etc.

Rose would've been proud of me this week. We bought a lovely big chicken on Tuesday which I roasted, along with all the usual suspects; it was delicious. When we had finished, M stripped the remainder of the meat from the carcass and I threw all the bones in a stockpot along with a couple of carrots, an onion, salt pepper and half a bottle of white wine and simmered it for an hour.

There's your stock for your chicken and pepper risotto the following night, which, if I do say so meself, was bloomin' delicious. and would you Adam and Eve it, their was enough meat on those bones to allow me to have a sandwich for lunch the next day too.

If you're listening Rose, thanks for the advice!

Although, why on earth Rose decided to call it the "english" kitchen (and thereby alienate a plethora of readers who might not be fans of the English), I have no idea!!

"The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again"

2010-02-23T23:14:00.013Z

During half term, we spent a long weekend in England's very own garden; Kent. More precisely, we spent a long weekend in historic Rochester, the place which inspired much of the work of Charles Dickens. It is a very pretty little town, quaint tea shops, antique shops, the beautiful cathedral, not to mention the fabulous Rochester castle, parts of which were built in 1127!!!

For a change, we stayed in a hotel; thought we'd take a break from cooking, washing up and so on. As nice as it was, there is always (like, always), an element of Fawlty Towers whenever we stay in anything other than self-catering accommodation, but I will spare you the long-winded rant for once (this time, at any rate!)

It just so happened that I finished reading a book while we were there and, being the kind of person that likes quirky coinicidences, I thought I'd mention it. The book is called Coram Boy and was written in 2000 by Jamila Gavin.

The blurb on the back of the book starts with the sentence, "A tale of two cities ..." I liked the fact that I happened to be finishing this book (with this wording), while we just happened to be in Dickens country.

Geddit?

Tale of Two Cities?

Ok, ok, forget the coincidence - go and get a copy of this book, tomorrow!

I took the book from the school library and it is clearly aimed at the younger reader but I think this is a book for the young in the same way that The Simpsons cartoon is for kids - yes, they may enjoy it, but there's heaps of underlying meaning which (I feel) would be lost on many.

Although The Alchemist will forever remain my favourite book (partly because of it's simplicity), Coram Boy has to be one of the best books I have read to date.

Ever.

The week that time stood still

2010-02-16T17:51:00.010Z

Look, I could apologise for going missing, but would you believe me?

Would you care?

' thought not, so buckle up; here we go.

If you have children, it will come as no surprise to learn that it is half term this week and, lucky me, I am off all week avec mes enfants.

So there'll be none of these (below) for a week ....

.. plenty of these (tunnels) ...

.. and we've already had a bellyful of these (expertly mixed by Missy) ...

.. with these fillings (note my favourite and my best cook book!)

And we're only half way through the week!!

ps - this post is dedicated to my watch who is at the menders after one of the links in the bracelet broke. (well, it is a very old watch after all!)

Get well soon old chum; missing you already - if I have looked at my bare wrist once in the last 72 hours, I have looked at my bare wrist 30 or 40 times!!

*sigh*

"I've never really understood ... why you stayed".

2010-02-13T21:10:00.009Z

As I’m sure you would agree, there are many, many beautiful things associated with our northern neighbour, Scotland. Let me give you just a couple of examples.

Single malt whisky from the Isle of Jura (best drunk from a short tumbler made from finest Edinburgh crystal, natch), the view north (or south) from the west coast of Loch Lomond, fresh snow on your face as you exit the button lift for your final descent of the main run at Aviemore, Sharlene Spiteri, the sea of electric blue thistles on your way down one of many hills in the Trossachs National Park.

Whassat?

Yes, that's right, Sharlene Spiteri.

Oh boy, I remember seeing Ms Spiteri way before Texas made it big - it must've been about '92. I thought she was gorgeous back then and she's still gorgeous now. That woman can do no wrong.

Or at least I thought she could do no wrong. Until I heard this.

Dear oh dear, sweet Sharlene!

NO!

There are some things which cannot be touched and ELO and Olivia Neutron Bomb's Xanadu is one of them!!!

Promise me, promise me, you won't do anything like that ever again?

Promise?

What other Scottish things have I loved and admired over the years?

Sean Connery's marvelloush ack-shent (not to mention his Highlander character's name Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez). Ooh, talking of Highlander (one of my fave films of all time), there was of course, the beautiful Beattie Edney who was on the receiving end of the goosebump inducing line, "goodnight, my bonnie Heather".

Goodnight indeed.

This isn't the first time I have mentioned Scotland (see here), but it will definitely be the last, at least on these pages.

Cheers, Big Yin!

"Go on my son, bash 'is bloody 'ead in!!"

2010-02-08T18:11:00.008Z

Following advice from Thierry a couple of days ago, we went to North End Road market in Fulham to check out this famous fishmongers.

Yes, it was as busy as he said it might be.

Yes, it was full of all the amazing fish and seafood he said it would be.

Yes, I purchased some rather tasty items for my seafood risotto I was cooking in honour of my Dad's belated birthday.

I bought an enormous piece of cod (the original fish was massive), which they filleted and skinned for me; about fifteen giant tiger (looking) prawns and two fairly large crabs. The crabs weren't for the risotto - I figured the children might enjoy taking a rolling pin to them and discover a bit more about where crab meat comes from!

The risotto (if I do say so meself), was a rather fabulous affair - very tasty indeed - and was appreciated by all. (Sorry, was too busy drinking fermented grape juice to remember to take a teensy picture of the finished product) and, as I suspected, the children did enjoy eating crab after they'd taken to them with the aforementioned rolling pin.

I will leave you with some pictures of one of the crabs, nicknamed Colin, before, during and ... erm ... after his demise.

Fresh crusty bread, fridge cold butter and a healthy dollop of Colin - delicious!

"Bonnet de douche!"

2010-02-03T22:55:00.008Z

Well, almost exactly 1 year on from being bought a voucher to The Kitchen, I actually went along to see what all the fuss is about. That makes it sound like I didn't want to go along but I was really looking forward to going. However, for some reason, it was only the thought of the voucher expiring after 12 months that got my lazy butt into gear and booked myself in.

And what was not to like?

I like cooking, I enjoy discussing food, eating food, nice wine. This way, I could prepare tasty meals, someone would tidy away for me, I get to chat to and ask advice from a Michelin starred chef and generally act like a wanna be Hugh-Fearnley Whittingstall.

As it turns out, I had booked at a very quiet time of day to go and it was just myself and Thierry. What a splendid chap he was too. Affable, knowledgeable, reassuring; he asked me if I liked to cook and was I any good?

"I'm ok I s'pose", I replied before very coolly slicing the merest sliver of skin off a finger.

He smiled understandingly before hollering the length of the cafe/kitchen, for someone to bring a plaster. Jean (as in John, not Jean) kindly brought me not one for my bloody digit, but two more, "just een case uh?", he sniggered.

Heh heh heh ..... yeah, thanks John.

Apart from the embarrassing slip o' the knife, I really enjoyed my time there. I could've been in and out inside 20 minutes but chatting easily with Thierry, this turned into an hour and a quarter, getting tips not only about how to cook but where to buy good, quality meat and fish as well as fresh, seasonal vegetables, more of which, another time.

"Are you driving?" he asked. I was. "Shame, we could 'ave drirnk zum good French wine, no?"

Damn.

This was probably a good thing though, because it's possible I could have sliced my entire hand off, such was the sharpness of the knives there, something of which he was immensely proud.

I made ham hock pie for two and I made Indonesian chicken rendang, they were professionally heat sealed and packaged in a sleeve that wouldn't look out of place in Harrods food hall.

I thanked him very much for the unique experience and told him I would be back.

And I will, definitely.

Got to.

I never spent all my voucher!

Au revoir!

Obeying the letter of the law

2010-01-31T23:17:00.005Z

As is always the case, the children managed to wake up yesterday morning far earlier than they do in the week. How do they do that?? How do their bodies know??

In a last ditch attempt to salvage some kind of lie in this morning, I had a "chat" with Annabel asking that surely she is "grown up" enough to get out of bed and go to the toilet, then get back into bed without waking one of us up to help her. I could see her little face staring at me as her brain processed what it was I was expecting her to do.

You see the psychology there?

Anyhoo, this is how things panned out this morning.

We were aware of her little footsteps pad into our bedroom this morning, before touching M on the arm and whispering, "Mama, I didn't wake you up to take me to the toilet", before leaving the bedroom and making her way back to her bed.

Bless her heart! She got it half right. Perhaps I didn't explain myself properly? To be fair, I didn't say "leave us well alone until we wake up". I just said she was big enough to go to the loo by herself. i guess she just wanted to share her good news.

And it was ten past seven so technically we'd already had a good lie in.

Rats.

"I like a gi-i-irl who drinks ..."

2010-01-29T21:59:00.008Z

I like to post here because (I like to think) it makes not only me mull things over, but you, the reader too.

My last post got me thinking way more than it probably should've done and, as much as I hate to repeat myself on my pages here, I am not gonna write anything original here (like I do anyway!), but ask you to re-read something that I've written before.

Joseph? Annabel?

Enjoy watching films, but remember; they're just films, they're just made up!

It's not real!!

Love who you are, not who you see in a film. You're better than they are!

Read here if you can be bothered.

"Not everyone understands house music, it's a spiritual thing, a body thing ..."

2010-01-28T23:14:00.013Z

They sure don't.

There are many defining moments in a man's life. There are the more obvious one's that occur as a young man and there are those which occur at the later stages in life, when one is a Dad, and you find out that your child couldn't give a stuff about your favourite genres of music.

Now, whether or not music plays, or has played, as much a part in your life as it has in mine, will determine how much you relate to this post, but write it I must.

This evening I was tinkering on the splinternet thingy-m'jigg, when Joseph ambles in, pulling the front of his pyjama top down to show me that he has indeed gotted changed, as requested not half an hour before. Unlike his sister, he is on the very brink of realising that the computer and the internet are two entirely different entities and he asked to look at "something" on the web. (Is doesn't take a crystal ball reader to know that he is merely delaying the going-to-bed process, but occasionally I am happy to play along with this).

Sometimes when I write, I like to do it in complete silence; other times, I prefer a bit of music in the background and tonight, I was lining up a few "toons" to loosen up to.

I tried some Bob Marley, some Jackson 5, some Madonna & Timberlake, some Moby, not to mention some Sugarhill Gang, some Blondie, with a healthy dollop of Erik B and Rakim.

Obviously I was confident that at least one of these walks down musical memory lane would press Joseph's buttons but unfortunately that confidence was ill founded.

He asked me for this instead.

We're looking into adoption agencies first thing tomorrow.

Well, I am!

"What a 42 carat plonker!"

2010-01-22T21:31:00.009Z

It is said that you should never judge a person until you have walked a mile in their shoes. With this in mind, I owe the memory of Joan Mavis Trotter a sincere apology.

Like many others over the decades, I sat and listened to her son Derek, reminisce fondly about his “classy” mother, even though his shared memories were inadvertently painting an all too different picture of her for us, the viewer. She may very well have been the first woman on the Near Area estate to smoke menthol cigarettes but unfortunately, this alone does not an elegant woman make.

Similarly, when Trigger’s Aunt Renee explained to Del through euphemism how his mother used to “help” Freddie the Frog out after “befriending” him, Del’s insistence that “she would help anyone out - she was a very friendly woman, my Mum,” again, did nothing to change my less than glowing impression of her.

Jump forward 23 years to last Sunday and, after reading the programme blurb for Rock ‘n’ Chips, I sat down to watch with a certain amount of hesitation. Would this spoil all the incredible work the Trotters had done over the years in endearing themselves to the public? Would John Sullivan stand accused of dragging a national treasure through the dumpster for the sake of an hour and a half’s light entertainment?

Well, no actually, not in the slightest. I had thought I would watch the entire programme through a gap in my fingers; however, I very quickly warmed to all the characters and not only smiled at many of the references to days gone by, but was also treated to several ‘laugh out loud’ moments.

Finally, we were being presented with the chance to ‘meet’ characters who had died long before the first series ever made it on to our screens. And not only meet them, but be very impressed by them. How on earth do you emulate a young Del’ Boy after he was played brilliantly for so long, by David Jason? Well, hats off to James Buckley for not only carrying it off perfectly, but for not over-playing the part. In fact, everyone should be applauded for doing just that – no-one attempted to reinvent any of the individuals we all know here. Merely, they enhanced our understanding of those characters and life in Peckham in the 1960’s.

And so to my apology.

Far from being the tawdry, ‘befriender’ of men that her devoted son unwittingly portrayed her as, Joan Trotter in fact turned out to be an attractive, smart and savvy woman who worked tirelessly to support an abusive husband and her lazy father-in-law, all the while dealing with the unwanted attention and advances of her sleazy cinema boss. She handled the difficult cards life had dealt her with extreme dignity and courage.

Her brief romance with Freddie Robdal – which should ultimately be frowned upon (like her son Derek’s business activities) – was sensitively and affectionately done; she fully deserved the attention that Freddie gave to her. It is little wonder then that the child with her genes, turned out to be the kind, sensitive and considerate adult that Rodney turned out to be.

Very well done Kellie Bright. I’m sure Joan Trotter would have been delighted to have you play her as you did. You managed to inspire the same amount of affection for your character in 90 minutes as it took the male members of the Trotter clan many years.

Ok, 47.69 carats then.

no comment

2010-01-21T23:07:00.003Z

On extremely rare occasions, I have mentioned Jamie Bulger and Ken Bigley on these pages. I have mentioned them rarely because they are the two stories that have most disturbed me in my lifetime.

And now this story.

I read it, then read it again.

Words fail me.

"Dedication, that's what you need ..."

2010-01-18T19:55:00.008Z

Hey ho, the start of another week and I must mention one of the nicest starts to a week that I have had in quite some time.

But first, some history.

Rewind to last Monday morning and the whole school filed into the hall to be greeted not by the Head, as is usually the case, but by a VIT (very important teacher). She was taking the assembly due to the Head being indisposed. As the entire school filed into the hall, I heard some familiar music dancing out of the speakers. The VIT introduced the music as being from the "Canival of the Animals" by Camille Saint-Saëns.

The music was "The Swan", smooth, fluid, graceful.

The assembly came and went and as we filed out, she played "The Elephant", loud, heavy, pompous.

When everyone had gone, I hurried over to the CD player to listen to, quite possibly, one of my favourite pieces of classical music ever.

Fast forward to today and as the whole school settles down, the same VIT as last Monday introduces the same piece of music playing.

"Who can tell me what animal this might be about?" she asked.

Several suggestions were offered before someone hit the nail on the head.

"Fish?"

"Aaah, yes. Fish. And what do fish sometimes live in?"

"An aquarium?"

Aaah, again, yes, an aquarium. And who d'you think had the music played in "his" honour today? None other than Yours Truly!

Yessir, the entrance music, The Aquarium, was for "Mr On A Bike" (ahem, not my real name), due to the fact that it is such a special piece for me.

After that, the rest of the day was guaranteed to be a good'un.

How was your Monday?

"I ..... can't ..... breathe ..... "

2010-01-17T23:12:00.004Z

It's like groundhog day, isn't it?

It doesn't matter what you do with your children, what you buy them, where you take them, whatever - you can be sure that a good night's sleep will effectively hit the reset button and the following day, it's like never did anything, bought anything, had anything nice to eat and so on.

"But we went to the cinema only yesterday. Then we went for something nice to eat".

"WHAT? That was yesterday!!!"

"Ok, so today we have to do a bit of tidying up together and then we can sit and play a game together".

"Tidy UP??? Oh ma-a-a-an!"

Ahem, yes, quite.

Ooh, I know - I think I'll go for a nice ride on my bike.

Like, right now!

"All the single ladies, all the single ladies ..."

2010-01-16T23:58:00.002Z

I occasionally mention the lovely, but mysterious, 'M' on these 'ere pages. I mention her just enough so as not to bore the reader, but enough so the aforementioned reader knows she exists, is real.

She is a wonderful person. Thoughtful, loving, generous and caring.

But today she did something that I'm not sure we can find our way back from. Something that I don't think can be forgotten easily. Something that all the quiet discussion, tears, honesty, can mend.

Under the guise of being, "for the children", she made me watch Alvin and the Chipmunks; the Squeakquel.

I guess one day we'll be able to discuss it, remember it, laugh about it.

One day.

Maybe.

"One, two, sree, four, one, two, sree, four ... "

2010-01-14T22:43:00.009Z

Looking back through some older posts, I am finding it difficult to believe it's been over a year since I wrote about trying to buy a piano (read here). Well, I say piano, but a work colleague of M's who's a pianist professional (at least, I think that's what she said), told me to consider a digital piano. They are cheaper to maintain and sound and look just as good, apparently.

Well, I found one. Actually, I found one some time ago, but something very special happened tonight that has prompted me to sit down and tell you about it.

Tonight Joseph and I had our very first piano lesson. If you took the time to read the link above, you will realise that playing the piano is something I have wanted to do for a very long time. The fact that Joseph is having his first lesson almost exactly 34 years earlier than I did was not lost on me.

Regardless, we were both excited and looking forward to the lesson. A work colleague put me in touch with a very friendly Russian chap who teaches both cello and piano at a very high level but was happy to take us on as students. His bread and butter, I guess you could say, but he was perfectly nice and very professional (offering his CRB form and driving licence so I would "know who I was dealing with").

An added bonus was that he came to our house (rather than us traipse to his) and this had the added advantage of being in familiar surroundings for Joseph. He had his half an hour (with me in the room) and I had my half an hour (with Joseph out of the room). I thought the guy was coming to an end with Joseph but I could see Joseph wanted to carry on. This was picked up on and, in his very strong Russian accent he said, "aah, I see a twinkle in your eye Joseph. you are enjoying it very much, is it right? Do you want to continue?" Of course, he did, so on they went.

I don't know what else to say other than it was bliss. All I learnt was where to find Middle C and D, crotchets, minims and semibreves, not to mention treble clefs!!!

After all this time, it was very satisfying to actually be reading music. Basic music undoubtedly but reading it nevertheless.

Look out Yann. I'm comin' after ya!!!

"Where everybody knows your name ..."

2010-01-13T00:00:00.009Z

Have I given you my recipe for making chicken liver pâté before now?

I haven't?

*gasps exaggeratedly*

Good grief, I must give it to you. It's very easy to make, is absolutely delicious and did I mention that the recipe is appearing in this years school cook book?

(I know I didn't mention it; I just wanted to!!)

Anyway, I will give you the recipe another time. Suffice it to say that I made a batch this week, as my it was my Mum's birthday this week and her and my Dad were coming over for lunch; I figured it would make a pretty tasty starter.

And so, as the wine began to flow (only my Dad and myself were drinking), M and the Grandmother's went off with the children to ooh and aah over this and that. This left my Dad and me at the table, discussing ...... stuff. We began talking about wine (as you do) and he looked over at my depleted stocks of vino.

"Is that all you have left?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in my general direction.

As I started to answer him, he jumped out of his chair and reached up to look at a bottle which, at a guess, hasn't moved for about 3 years.

"Yes, but I try not to ...... " (too late), "move them too much". My shoulders fell forwards and he realised his mistake. He'd picked it half out of it's permanent hidey hole.

"Oops. Sorry about that", he offered, as he gently lowered it back to it's original position.

"Don't worry Dad", I replied. "Stirring up any sediment will only add to the eventual flavour, I'm sure" (Sarcasm is a good friend to me).
As much as I would have preferred him not to have moved that bottle, it did open my Dad up to telling me a terrific story, one that I can't believe I haven't heard before now.

Of course, this won't mean nearly as much to you as it does to me but for the sake of prosperity, I simply have to make a note.

Actually, apart from myself, I know there will be some old work friends of mine who now live in Australia and New Zealand, who will enjoy reading this. They don't actually know my father either but this story coupled with a previous tale I told them will once and for all seal the lid on them thinking my Dad is a vicious lunatic.

Nothing could be further from the truth, however.

Apparently, my parents went to a party thrown by one of my Dad's workmates, many, many moons ago. The host of the party happened to be a real ale fan and as such, had a cask of real ale on offer at the party. I'm not sure I've ever seen my Dad drink real ale but anyways, he decided to help himself to a pint from this revered keg. Whether or not he was doing something wrong he doesn't know; all he knows is he couldn't get anything to come out of the tap. And so, in his wisdom, he tipped the keg up at one end to help things along.

*Our survey said? Uh - uuhhhhhhhhh!!!*

To be fair, as far as sediment goes in a keg of real ale, I can sit here comfortably in front of my PC and say "now, I do not believe you wanted to do that".

At a party, however, I reckon I might just have been trying to get something out of the damn thing, as was my Dad. Anyway, out of nowhere, the partner of the host (who had supplied the ale), came over and whacked my Dad round the head for breaking the cardinal rule about disturbing a cask of ale.

HOWEVER, she wasn't aware about the even greater cardinal sin of NOT whacking my Dad round the head, whatever the reason!

Now, my Pop isn't a violent man. He is below average height. He is slim. Quietly spoken. Man, he doesn't like rude words, for crying out loud. This is not a violent man.

Regardless of this though, upon being clouted round the noggin and in his "fury" (his word, not mine), he ran to find the host of the par-tay, grabbed him round the throat with one hand and lifted him up against the wall of his own house, all the while undoubtedly spouting some nonsense about not liking his head being touched!!

Naturally, word spread like wildfire ("did you hear? So-and-so grabbed such-and-such by the throat. Had him up against the wall. Yeah, that's right, the placid fella!")

And that, apparently, is how every single one of my Dad's workmates over the years have come to give him the nickname "Boston" (short for Boston Strangler).

So there you have it. The next time you meet a bloke for the first time and he fits the description above, try giving him a firm smack around his head. If he attacks you, it's quite possible that it's my Dad.

Don't say I didn't warn you!

Cheers Pops. That was a funny story.

A book review

2010-01-07T23:01:00.005Z

I got you didn't I??

You thought I'd gone ultra lazy and was posting a second book review in a week!!!

Well, faithful reader, I am more than a little happy to inform you that you are in fact wrong. I am just taking the opportunity to let you know about one of the lovely cook books that sits 'pon my shelf of, erm .... cook books and tonight I cooked from it.

Let me think.

Freezing cold evening. Couple of plump chicken breasts waiting to for some justice to be dealt to them. What can I do??

Ooh, I know, curri-fy them, yes-s-s-s!!

And who do I turn to when I am considering adding a healthy sprinkling of garam masala to a kukkri dish? None other than the extremely photogenic Vicky Bhogal.

I'd knocked up a delicious (and more importantly, authentic) chicken curry in just over an hour.

(Actually, the curry took me 35 minutes. I spent the other 25 looking at shots of Vicky!!)

Get a copy of this book. It's got some lovely pictures in.

And some cracking recipes too!

Brrrrrrrrrrr ......

2010-01-06T23:15:00.007Z

Yes, the local authorities scrimped on salt supplies.

Yes, it's a nuisance not being able to get the car out.

Yes, it's hazardous walking to and from work/school on pavements covered in ice.

Yes, it's a total pain in the backside walking up a steep, snowy hill at the end of the day with a cold 4 year old and a tired 7 year old.

Yes, it's fairly miserable fighting the cold inside the house on a daily basis.

Yes, it's working out bloody expensive lighting a fire every night.

But you know what?

It really is very pretty when it snows!

Nothing too strenuous methinks .....

2010-01-03T23:40:00.003Z

Yes-s-s-s, that's it, let's just ease ourself very gently into this year shall we?

Actually, as I write that, I realise that I haven't been keeping you up to date with the books I read towards the end of last year, so I will seek to rectify that right here, right now.

I think there's something quite romantic about my first post of the new year being a book review, don't you? Or am I doing my usual "talking cobblers" bit again? Ok, not romantic but helpful, informative even.

This is another book snatched from the shelves of the school, a book aimed at those whose ages are approaching double figures. And, as I have found with so many books aimed at this age range, it's bloody terrific.

Apologies to David Almond but I'd never heard of him before seeing this book but the picture and blurb on the back got me interested. To be honest, there's not a huge amount of story per se in this book, but it is packed full, from start to finish, of very beautiful description.

I won't spoil it for you but if you've ever fancied reading a totally believable tale of a young boy who one day, finds and befriends a "beer-drinking, chinese-take-away-eating-angel" in his Dad's dilapidated garage, then read this book.

When I read the last few pages, the hairs on the my neck and arms stood up and I stopped myself from welling up. When I had finished the last page, I wasn't sure why I'd stopped myself from welling up.

The book deserved a bit of welling up on the part of the reader and I denied it that much.

Sorry Dave.

' promise I'll blub on the next one!!

And there went the Noughties"

2009-12-31T23:46:00.008Z

We decided to have a full on New Years Eve party at our house this year; something a little bit different. Ok, not so much a full on party, more a soirée with finger foods. Oh yeah, and no-one else was invited except for me, M and the kids!!

That's right, an exclusive little gathering at home, just the four of us, with nice foods and nice drinks. While we were waiting patiently for our delicious looking 'cook-at-home' crispy duck to ... erm ... cook, I laid out the other nibbles. We have an old victorian travelling trunk that sits in front of the TV which occasionally serves as a low table and the children eat their snacks off it. Tonight, every time I put something on the trunk and turned to leave, I saw Joseph literally lick his lips and reach across, making sure he didn't miss out on anything.

To give him credit, he didn't actually start eating until we were all sat down which, after I had shredded the (very large) duck, we did. Joseph's plate by now resembled a comedy pyramid of food, piled more than generously and he got stuck in with gusto. Annabel, as always, started on her food in her calm, 'nibble-a-bit-here, nibble-a-bit-there' approach.

Is there anybody out there who doesn't like crispy duck in pancakes with spring onion and plum sauce?

' thought not.

Anyways, barely 10 minutes of hard core scoffing had passed when Joseph meekly announced that he would be stopping eating as he 'felt a bit sick'. Hmmm.... no surprise there then.

We finished watching our film and, barely had Bill Sykes stopped swirling around at the end of the rope, high above the streets of a very grimy east end of London, did we take the children up to bed for the last time this year. As I was tucking Joseph into bed, I thought I'd give it one more go at "bigging up" the occasion.

"You know Joseph, you go to sleep tonight and it's one year ..... "

(He interrupted and continued with a distinctly unimpressed face)

"Yeah, I know, I wake up and it's a different year!"

"You clever thing", I replied, slightly crestfallen. "How d'you know that?"

"Mum told me the same thing just now!!"

Bearing this in mind and, knowing that M had gone downstairs to get Annabel some drinking water, I ran along to her bedroom to tuck her in and try to big up the situation with her, before M came back to, ahem, sprinkle on my fire, as it were.

"You know Annabel, tonight when you go to sleep, it'll be one year. When you wake up in the morning, it'll be another year. A new year!"

I adopted my best excited expression that I could muster and, as I waited for my daughter to respond, she pushed one forefinger up her right nostril in search of an irritating booger and asked me, "and then what happens??" all the while, still fishing.

Cue second deflation of the evening within the space of approximately 3 minutes.

I gave up. Hey, I know when I'm beat, I'll give myself that much.

I s'pose they're right though. As one of my university professors used to say, "Old Years Day? New Years Eve? Pah, it's just clock worship, that's all".

I've always enjoyed seeing in a new year however, and of course, this one has the added hook of being the start of a new decade. What bothers me slightly about this decade is looking at how much as changed for me as a person. Or indeed, us as a couple.

10 years ago tonight, we were standing on London's Embankment with hundred's of thousand's of other revellers to see in the start of the new millenium. We'd spent the day seeing television pictures of Tonga being the first to see in the new year. Sydney's amazing fireworks over the harbour. Beijing. Moscow. Cairo and now, experiencing it for ourselves, London.

Of course, it never quite works here, whatever it is. Some of the fireworks planned to go off in unison on barges up and down the river failed to ignite. Concorde's fly-by happened to coincide with some rather unfortunate and extremely low cloud (most people saw nothing). But hey-ho, the sense of unity was there, the togetherness, the camaraderie. (London Olympics people, take heed!).

And that, unbelievably, was a decade ago. Since then, M and I got married. We moved from our lovely little flat by Battersea park to our present house. We got different jobs. We had a son. Then a daughter. Got more jobs.

It's been a very busy 10 years.

Unfortunately, as we were discussing the other day, we certainly feel like it's been 10 years. We're not old by any stretch of the imagination but we were just a teensy bit concerned at how we might feel in another 10 years. Crikey, Joseph will be 17 and Annabel will be 14. I mean, she already has the attitude of a 14 year old, I'm not sure I'll be able to cope with her as a real teenager!!

Calm down, deep breaths, it's just the end of the year. take it nice and easy.

I-i-i-in through the nose and ou-u-u-ut through the mouth.

You're right. I'm all better now. It's just the end of another year.

I certainly hope your year was good to you? I hope more than anything you have your health which, as I seem to chant whenever I get the opportunity, is the most important thing. Even as you crumple another useless lottery ticket into the recycling bag, wondering what you could've done with the 5 pounds you spent on it, you know deep down I'm right, as annoying as it is when I am right!!

Happy New Year to you.

I hope Two Thousand and Ten is whatever you want it to be and, as I said, I hope your health will allow you to be reading the rubbish I write at the other end of it.

(Not to mention my health allowing me to write it in the first place!!)

Pip pip ...

"I watch the sunrise lighting the sky ...

2009-12-25T23:44:00.017Z

Having been entirely preoccupied with preparing for today, much has been thrown to one side with a view to "sorting it out later". The children's school bags fell into this vague pigeonhole and I only went through them a couple of nights ago, nearly a week after school had finished for the year.

I came across the following story book that Joseph had written and coloured in. Obviously the story is not his exactly, but he has told it in his own words. As with any piece of work or art that has been completed by one of your own children, it is touching and heartbreaking to picture them sat at a desk, working away, concentrating for all they're worth!!

Whether you pray to a God or not and whichever one it may or not be, try to put to one side (just for 30 seconds) any prejudice you may have for the story of the Nativity. Just read the following and enjoy the pictures because they were done by a 7 year old in his own words.

My smashing son.

Well done Poops - this is a terrific version. I particularly like the bit about Mary hanging out the washing!!!

(click to enlarge pictures and words)

(lift the flap to reveal present)

Whoever you are, wherever you are, Happy Christmas to you and yours.

"Remove cork ... pour ... sip ... and rela-a-a-ax ... "

2009-12-24T23:58:00.009Z

If your stress levels are anywhere near where mine have been, you will probably also be feeling relieved that you can't do much more than you already have. Actually, as I wrote that, I realised that I am no longer stressed due to the fact that we have not got any entertaining to do for the Big One - tomorrow.

As you may have guessed therefore, we are not cooking Christmas Day lunch, but have only to look forward to being catered for.

Shopping, presents, food prep', shopping, exchanging incorrect presents, further purchasing etc, it all comes down to tomorrow.

Of course, today actually marks Christmas itself, as opposed to the season of Advent, which is where the shops purposely mis-sell the whole notion that "presents = happiness and love".

It ain't true!

My picture today is the front of a Christmas card I received from one of the pupils that I work with.

I think it's rather beautiful.

ps; don't forget to leave the mince pie, milk and carrot out!!

"There's no room at the inn!"

2009-12-21T00:22:00.005Z

We arrived at the Wintershall estate yesterday afternoon, nearly an hour too early for the 'show'. It was bitingly cold. We parked in a field and hiked up a steep, muddy hill where we were informed that approximately 600 people were expected to turn up.

We drank hot chocolate, stamped our feet and generally tried to keep warm until the proceedings began.

And then, as the sky had turned from orange to red to black, a single powerful spotlight picked out the two actors approximately 3 to 400 hundred yards away, one sitting on a donkey, as they and roughly 30 other actors recreated the story of the nativity.

I'll say no more, other than go and see it, however cold it gets.

It was spellbinding.

"Please put a penny in the old man's hat ..."

2009-12-19T20:44:00.004Z

Well, I finally decided to get my sorry-good-for-nothing butt up into the attic and haul down the boxes of decorations, including our fabulous tree. Our pretend 'fir' is on it's 6th year and it still looks terrific.

Yes, yes, I'm sure for some of you that "you can't beat the smell of a real tree" and for those of you who think that "you can so tell a real tree from a pretend one", let me tell you something; you can't!

At least, not this one.

Clever us bought it a couple of nights before Christmas when Joseph was just a year old and good ol' Homebase had done their trick of reducing the reduced.

Was £100 (crossed out).

Now £80 (crossed out)

Now £60 (also crossed out!)

20% off day £48 (errr... not crossed out).

We figured it would pay for itself in just two years and it is serving it's purpose beautifully. 7ft of extremely realistic Christmas tree.

Joseph, Annabel and myself constructed it before the two of them decorated it by themselves (with M overseeing proceedings).

As I felt ever so slightly redundant, I sat back in our old Parker Knoll, sipping a glass of red whilst thumbing through the Christmas edition of the Radio Times.

Old age here I come!!!

"When your world is full of strange arrangements ..."

2009-12-16T21:41:00.007Z

"How many times do I have to say it, if you wake up early, please don't wake Mummy or me. Either go back to sleep or just play quietly or read, ok?"

The old saying "in one ear and out the other" is wholly appropriate here and many a weekend lie in has been cut horribly short by this request being entirely ignored. One can only moan so much however, for this is the choice a parent has made; this is the path they have chosen! Of course, you don't know it is non-negotiable until it's too late, which is a bit of a bummer!

However, on very rare occasions, the above saying must register somewhere deep in a child's psyche 'cos you roll over, look at the clock and realise you've slept in until 8.15am (yes, that is a lie in!).

Of course, then, your worry button kicks in because everything is so ..... quiet! And so you find yourself tip-toe-ing down the landing, listening out for signs of life (you can hear nothing), looking into one bedroom, then the next, then the bathroom, before arriving at the 'back' bedroom and, peering through the crack of the door, you see both your children playing together, talking quietly but happily, co-operating with each other with the task in hand and, trying to avoid disrupting their play (and feeling slightly guilty at wondering what they might really be up to), you turn and make your way to the bathroom.

Too late - they've heard you and out they come, first to say good morning then to run off down the landing to see their Mama.

Naturally, you have to satisfy your curiosity and take a peak at what they were making.

A heart made from Crazy Bones.

*sigh*

"It's only a Gastropub ..."

2009-12-13T22:38:00.008Z

Repeat: "It's only a Gastropub".

These were the words I read on a food blog written by the very entertaining Bellaphon, to whom I have made reference several times on my own pages here. Otherwise known as "Fat Les" (his choosing, not mine), he has since ceased writing about food owing to the fact that he has "lost his sense of smell". Personally I think it's because he started smoking again and thus, sadly, his palate's sensitivity has gone walkabout, but I, like many, live in hope that he feels inspired enough to pack in the dreaded weed, go out to restaurants again, eat vast quantities of rich food and then sit down at his keyboard to tell the likes of me what he thought about it.

It was a procedure exactly like this which has prompted me to tell you about my visit to a place I have been meaning to sample, purely on the basis of a rave review I read by Fat Les, for the best part of 8 months. Several failed attempts at securing a table later, I received the text message I had been waiting for; your reservation for 2 is confirmed at;

The Harwood Arms in Fulham.

Joseph and Annabel were having a "sleepover" at my parents, so the wonderful M and myself treated ourselves to an evening out. We took good old public transport (just like old times) so I could push the boat out, should the ale or wine list take my fancy (which they did).

Apart from some extremely loud and drunk King's Road types (who left meekly when they smashed an over-the-bar lamp shade), the ambience was just perfect. A small-ish bar adjoining an even smaller-ish restaurant area and the staff were extremely laid back and friendly.

Did we want a drink? Yes please, a pint of Wandle ale for me (local, you see?) and a Bloody Mary for M which, considering she doesn't drink, like, ever, gives you some idea of how welcoming and relaxing the place is!

We drank, we chatted, we ate the warm home made bread and I asked if I could have one of their famous venison scotch eggs which-was-amazing!!!!. (I should at this point highlight the fact that I opted not to take my camera as I have become something of a bore when it comes to snapping my food. It is for this reason that I will provide you with a link to Bellaphon's review of the place, complete with pic's, shortly).

Anyway, our choice's of food went something like this.

Our starters;

Me: (after the scotch egg) Poached salmon with sea purslane, fresh apple, horseradish cream and toast.

M: Half dozen Hereford snails with oxtail braised in stout, parsley crumbs and bone marrow.

Main course;

Me: Whole rabbit leg stewed in cider and mustard with smoked bacon, prunes and Swiss chard.

M: Roast pheasant breast and green peppercorn sausage with pearl barley, butternut squash and black cabbage.

Following thses exquisite courses, we were all set for Bramley apple doughnuts and cheese's but alas, our stomach's were full. We made do (did I just say "made do"???) with two scoops of clementine sorbet which was just amazing.

It wasn't the kind of place that we would eat at regularly - whilst it wasn't horribly expensive, it wasn't 'everyday' eating prices either. We have spent much of today reminding ourselves how nice it was and how we must go again. I think that spending the following day reminding yourself about your meal is a pretty good indicator to how much we enjoyed ourselves.

Our terrific food, the walk back to Fulham which was buzzing with people just heading out as we headed home, Christmas lights twinkling, the slightly hypnotic bus ride, leaving behind the crisp, cold night air as we walked into our warm home, all added to the special-ness of the evening.

The fact that we discussed our children for most of the evening is neither here nor there!!

I would like to say a big thank you to Fat Les (there's nothing "fat" about him, by the way!) for bringing my attention to the Harwood Arms in the first place.

Without him, I would never have heard about it, let alone gone to try it.

I reckon if I get a petition going, he might pack in the fags, get his taste buds back into shape and get out there again, giving us points and tips as to where to eat.

Having said that, he did give the South West of London a bit of a wide berth so I may have to get a different petition going about that one!

But for now, thanks Les. Thanks a lot.

Hope the shop is busy!

Come back soon!!?!

(Check out his review here)

Anger management police? Moi??

2009-12-08T21:07:00.006Z

Blackadder: "Do you know what 'irony' is Baldrick?"

Baldrick: "Yeah, it's like goldy or silvery, only it's made out of iron!"

This was the terrific exchange that went through my mind this morning when the headteacher came to thank me for talking to a pupil who was extremely upset and was finding it almost impossible to control his temper. She ended the conversation by saying that I could be the school's Anger Management Police and should be called upon whenever needed.

It was all tongue in cheek of course, but the fact that it was being suggested, even in jest, prompted the irony comparison.

You see, it has been known for me to lose my own temper once or-half-a-million times in the course of my lifetime.

Heh heh, I know ..... I know ..... hard to believe but unfortunately, true.

As a general rule, I am most short tempered with myself. Having said that, if I really wanted to, I could draw you up a list of things that have pushed me past boiling point, often quite ridiculous. To do that, however, would risk you thinking badly of me (which I simply couldn't bear) so we'll forget all about that, thank you very much!

Talking of losing one's temper, I want you to consider two points.

Firstly, why is it that when you see an everyday car (including your own) getting a parking ticket, you think that traffic wardens are without heart or humour, but when you see a SuperCar getting ticketed, it's strangely satisfying? Or is it just spiteful old me??

Secondly, what do people who drive SuperCars do when they see they've been given a parking ticket? Do they freak out and start frothing at the mouth or do they simply smile, remind themselves of how little it will impact on their bank balance and drive off at terrific speed?

I sure wouldn't mind finding out for myself!!

Ho ho bleeding' ho ....

2009-11-29T19:55:00.007Z

It makes me smile when we teach our children how bad it is to tell lies, then proceed to tell them that on one particular night in the year, a rosy cheeked fat man wearing a red velvet suit, will slip effortlessly down our chimney in order to leave them a present or two provided they've been well behaved for pretty much the whole of the year!

It's lies and bribery rolled into one!

We tell ourselves that it's for their own little bit of magic, to bring a bit of sparkle to the festivities but at the end of the day, it is basically a fib of whopping proportions. Of course, I for one absolutely loved the idea of Santa Claus shinning his way back up the chimney or, even better, waking up and catching him in the act of leaving presents at the end of my bed.

I remember one Christmas many years ago when my brother and I were sharing a bedroom (I guess I must have been about 7, him about 3) and we awoke to oddly shaped pillowcases at the foot of our beds.

We set about opening them up before our parents woke up and I remember feeling ever so slightly deflated when my first present was a Fisher Price camera and his first present was a cool looking sports car with a boat on a trailer. This continued for a couple more pressies before our Mum heard my wailing and made excuses while swapping pillowcases.

"Santa" must've had too much "special milk" and got the bags mixed up!

What a laugh.

Roll forward to about 5 years ago and myself, M and a 2-and-a-bit year old Joseph are heading to Covent Garden to visit Father Christmas in the enormous hollow tree (made out of scaffold but still very effective) they had put up that week.

The look on his little face as he was confronted by the mystical St Nick I will never, ever forget. It was a mixture of fear and amazement with a little bit of trust thrown in for good measure and he edged his way toward the open hand of Santa (who was being played by a rather skinny chap in Dennis Taylor style snooker glasses), but who was a very kind sounding Father Christmas.

We have the most wonderful picture of this meeting (even though it is permanently damaged - boo hoo - read here for why) and it brings back the best memories. I got outside that fake tree in Covent Garden, it was dark, it was cold and it was all I could do to not blub like a baby in front of the "collect your picture here" booth.

The point to all this is that that meeting, that first ever encounter with St Nicholas stayed with Joseph for several years. It might still be there somewhere for all I know although he doesn't refer to it any more but I remember feeling warmth and gratitude towards the stranger in the red suit for making the wonder of Santa a reality for Joseph.

Roll forward another couple of years to yesterday and in one of hundreds of Christmas fairs up and down the country, another random individual playing Santa Claus was getting changed into his outfit and applying his make up.

Only this individual had never been Santa before and was quite nervous, even though he had been looking forward to it.

The reason I know all this is because that individual was me. I had been asked a few weeks back and as soon as my colleagues approached me, I remembered the Santa in the Covent Garden tree. Skinny he may have been but he (and his grotto) had conjured up enough magic to get my son through his early years - if he could do it, so could I.

After whiting out my eyebrows a bit, a dab of rouge on my cheeks and nose, padding tied round my waist, newly made suit climbed into, white wig on, beard on, hat on, glasses on, wellies on et voilà, one Father Christmas open for business.

M and I had discussed that the children wouldn't visit Santa until my shift was over (3 hours later) but approximately 2 hours in, they wanted to see the man himself.

I figured it would be the ultimate test so I gave the nod to one of my fairy helpers and in they came.

At first I wasn't sure if Joseph was fooled, although Annabel seemed to be buying it, looking embarrassed and avoiding eye contact which suited me fine!

I got her to sit next to me and Joseph to stand on my other side and carried on in my voice that was a cross somewhere between the Major from Fawlty Towers and Ronnie Corbett in Sorry! It seemed to be working even if M was barely containing her hysterics!!

You know what? It bloody well worked!!! They left happy, waving their wrapped presents and out they went. It wasn't until half an hour later that I regretted not having taken a picture of the three of us.

So we called them back, gave them some story about Santa forgetting to take a picture for his scrapbook, sat them down again and said 'cheese'.

So here, for the first time ever on these pages, is a picture of my children and myself (I've tweaked their features slightly). If you ever meet us in the street however, remember, they have no idea!!!

Help me keep it that way.

Kids?

It's me, your old Dad - I was Santa at the Christmas fair and you never had a clue - it was the best feeling!!!!!

Happy advent to you both!
xx

Unions of the World, unite!

2009-11-26T21:46:00.005Z

Earlier on in the year, I bored you to tears with a letter from my podiatrist (to whom I had been referred), to the Consultant Physiotherapist. The content of this nonsense is neither here nor there, but I did post a very entertaining picture for your amusement.

Refresh your memories here.

I found another corker of a sign at a public convenience by the underground station that serves the O2 arena.

Now that is a specific closing time!

"Beans, beans, the musical fruit ..."

2009-11-24T22:21:00.004Z

Rip; bottom burp; pant rumbler; horse and cart; 1 man salute; break wind; flatulence; honk; pass wind; the dog did it.

In this increasingly politically correct world, it seems even the funniest of words are being deemed unnacceptable. I mean, what's offensive about the word "fart"?

Ok, I admit, there are plenty of more "polite" words to explain the action, especially if you are teaching your children but does the word fart actually offend?

To offend or not to offend, that is the question!

Either way, in a bid to keep it clean for my children's sake BUT, not wanting to completely lose the humour surrounding the word (or should that be verb?), I introduced two options.

"Oh my goodness, who let one rip?" is the first choice of question that even now gets plenty of cheap laughs from both offspring. This is absolutely nothing however, compared to the laughter that Annabel got from me when tonight, with a totally seriously face, she offered up the second option of phrase which I associate more with my Dad saying. She held her nose, looked from her brother (the perpetrator) to me and said, "I think Joseph's let one go Dad".

I don't care who y'are, but coming from a 4 year old, that's funny right there!

"Can you tell what it is yet?"

2009-11-19T22:36:00.005Z

I have been trying to find the time to sit down and write about last Saturday since ... erm ... last Saturday, but have been too busy doing I'm not sure what!

Nevertheless, here I am, willing and able.

Poor M has a busy enough week as it is without offering to work 50% of our precious weekend, but work she did. This coincided with Joseph going to play at a school friend's house which left Annabel and my good self, almost unbelievably, alone for the day!! Annabel and I never get to spend any time alone, like, ever!!

It was a treat.

The weather was rotten but this didn't matter in the slightest. We played snakes and ladders, we did arts and crafts, we did drawings, colouring in, fuzzy felt pictures, puzzles, had lunch alone and, when it was all too much, we watched some TV slumped on the sofa until late afternoon.

Although (most) parents love their child/ren with all their heart on a daily basis, there are days when you feel your heart will burst; today I was lucky enough to have one of those days.

Thanks Missy - I had a lovely day.

Can't wait 'till the next one!

I could tell you all about this scene but it has been done so creatively, that I know I need not explain what it is?

Right?

"Bread's better wi' nowt taken owt"

2009-11-12T23:35:00.004Z

Here's one I never saw coming, but you will have to allow for my London accent to appreciate it. I think.

Annabel, as you may or may not know, has started on her reading "words" and is doing rather well with them (see here).

Well, this evening we were going through some new words and she got to one that was spelt;

F A S T

Now, when I say that word, it starts off rhyming with "car" as opposed to "gas" - geddit?

FAR - CAR - FAST - CAST

rather than

GASSED - FAST

Am I making myself clear?

As mud?

The thing is, Annabel's lovely teacher is from Yorkshire and obviously, she says the word 'fast' in an accent different to mine (it's not a problem, please don't report me to the racist police!!!), but it did take me aback slightly, that's all, ok?

Sheesh.

In Flanders Field ...

2009-11-08T20:15:00.008Z

As a young teenage lad walking to the Territorial Army cadets on a Friday evening, I thought I was pretty damn cool in my uniform, beret cocked dandily to one side with a Royal Artillery badge upon it, glistening in the evening sunshine. I can remember just how badly those awful shirts itched, no matter how much fabric conditioner my Mum used on them! I can remember feeling generally very proud to be a part of something that was affiliated to the regular army which, it turns out, my parents were terrified of me signing up for.

I can also remember how good it felt asking my Dad to sign the permission form which would allow me to go up in a Chinook helicopter if ever the need arrived and, with his pen poised, asking me, "yeah, but you're unlikely to ever actually need to right?"

Sadly, I never did go up in one but still rush to the window at hearing one, looking forlornly at them, watching their turns as they follow the twists of the river Thames as they head across the capital.

I remember also, the immense pride at taking part in the special parade which took place on the second Sunday of November to honour the memory of those who had given their lives during The Great War.

Quite why it was called the "great" war though, continues to be a mystery as there is nothing great about war.

Strange really, that after a decade of making me cry with laughter, Richard Curtis and Rowan Atkinson managed to bring home the awfulness, the sadness and the incredible waste of life, in the final scene of Blackadder Goes Forth. From muddy trench to lying dead in No Mans Land in the space of 30 seconds.

The war to end all wars?

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

— Lt.-Col. John McCrae (1872 - 1918)

See an opportunity ....

2009-11-03T21:55:00.003Z

Take the opportunity!

"Guess what love? I've got another load of money to spend!!"

Knock, knock. Who's there?

2009-11-02T17:46:00.018Z

Ooh, that reminds me.

One thing I did forget to mention in my Paris post, was that I developed a rather keen interest in some of the beautiful (what we would call), front doors. They were more than just front doors though; they were the entrance not only to the flats and apartments, they usually opened out onto a little courtyard, some were beautiful, some less so. Some of the doors were very grand, others, again, less so.

Anyways, just thought I'd share some of the nicer ones that caught my fabulously (un)trained eye.

Fright Night

2009-11-01T08:20:00.008Z

Roasted chestnuts ......

a freshly opened bottle of 10 year old brandy .....

and a particularly scary looking, personally carved pumpkin. What more do you need for a successful Hallowe'en?

Oh yeah, the children.

After 3 or 4 years, Joseph is now fully versed in the 'knocking-on-doors-and-scaring-people-to-death" etiquette but it's all quite new to Annabel. She was so excited and had a great time, and she only refused to walk down 2 garden paths thanks to their overly realistic ghosts and ghouls hanging above the front doors.

She enjoyed it right up to the point where she told me, "one more house Dad and that's it, we're going home ok? I'm getting tired".

It was ok though; she enjoyed opening the door to the hardier types who kept on coming until the "treats" ran out!

Happy Hallowe'en.

In one word, "Paris"

2009-10-29T22:37:00.046Z

In two words, "bloody expensive".

Like, bloody!!

Here are some pic's. Words only where absolutely necessary. As always, click to enlarge.

(sorry to keep you waiting)

I may have boycotted Israeli fruit and veg' in the supermarkets over recent years but every guide book in the library insisted that we visit the Jewish quarter for their famous falafels.

The guide books were right.

Montemartre painting, traditional style.

Something a little more modern; no less clever.

Bee-yoo-ti-ful lantern adorned ceiling, above the T-Cup ride.

Au revoir Metro, bonjour St. Pancras.

"Y'know Racquel, Close Encounters is my most favourite film ....."

Not on your life, Sana!

2009-10-23T23:52:00.005+01:00

I saw this A4 sheet sellotaped to the side of a disused telephone box in the week. It is the pinnacle of dental advertising.

I can't quite make out if Sana expects you to call her or propose marriage to her in order to get a check up?

D'you see what I mean?

Who'd a thunk it?

2009-10-18T23:41:00.004+01:00

It's bloody typical!

Only I could mess things up for myself quite as spectacularly as I do.

A whole years worth of motor racing (I know, I know, boring), boiled down to today's race - the Brazilian Formula 1 race from Sao Paulo - when Britain's Jenson Button could be crowned World Champion.

Ok, check time of race, go for lovely afternoon in Crystal Palace park, offer to cook Joseph's favourite spaghetti bolognese, drive slowly home, stopping off for fresh crusty bread (you gotta have fresh crusty bread to mop up the sauce, man), begin cooking, switch on TV "just in case" I got my times wrong .....

And I had.

Ok, ok, I was recording it anyway but I always watch the first lap 'live' you see?

What, you don't see?

Fine.

Well, as it happens, the world has a new champion this evening and he is Britain's Jenson Button so well done Jenson, a title well deserved.

Thanks for a bloody exciting year of racing.

In the absence of any photographs of Mr Button, I will leave you with this rather handsome Canadian goose, as taken this afternoon.

(when I should've been heading home to slump in front of the television!!!)

GrrrRRRRRR .....

Tracer Bullet, Private Eye.

2009-10-17T22:42:00.020+01:00

The name's Bullet.

Tracer Bullet.

This sorry tale began back in late July, one bright sunny morning with the weekend stretched out before me like a ..... big ..... two day, stretched out thing. There was only one thing for it; decorate the stairs.

It wasn't an easy decision. I knew I had my work cut out. But it had to be done.

I finished my drink in one hit; the tea had gone cold but it wasn't the first drink I'd ever had that had been served below 30 degrees, trust me. I waited for the sugar to hit, savoured the moment, then rounded up the boys; a hammer, large screwdriver, filler, sander and anyone else that fancied coming along for the ride.

It felt good, being together again. It had been a long time. Too long, in fact. We never spoke much. We knew, we all knew, the job would be a dirty one.

I went first, holding nothing back. I stripped our 'hit' of all dignity, left 'em bare, shivering, pleading for something, anything, to wrap around 'em, to keep out the cold.

Not a chance buster. You been wearing them manky blue clothes for too long now. Time to open up, time to welcome the change, time for something new.

Once I stopped to take a breather, the enormity of the task hit home.

Hard.

It had been a while since tackling anything this size. I looked from the hit, to the "boys", to my already calloused hands. Had I bitten off more than I could chew?

I called to the broad in the kitchen, told her to fix me another drink. It was gonna be a tough day.

Why do I have to deal with this kinda vermin? The lowest of the low, the dregs, no rung or step is lower. The lowest one I encountered that day was in a bad way before I'd even gotten stuck in. Full of holes, split in two from one side, clean across to the other. It broke my heart doing what I did!

But do it I had to do and do it I did.

Man, I filled and rubbed, filled and rubbed, filled and rubbed for all I was worth and finally, after a coupla hours working 'em over hard, they saw the light. They started to come good, knew I meant business and stopped wasting my time.

I was winning. They finally agreed to wanting some protection.

Protection is my business. They were finally speaking my language.

I got stuck in with a decent camouflage and it suited them, good and proper.

The bottom one was going to be trickier though. This baby needed a little more TLC. I flashed a chisel or two and wasted no more than three car journeys to collect the right "piece" (of wood) for the job.

"That's it", I whispered, as I gently knocked the sharp edges off. "No need to fight. It's so much easier when you don't fight!"

Now, I don't want you nice people thinking this was all in the space of one lousy weekend. No siree, this job had (so far) been spread out over several weeks. I'm making it sound easy but no such luck. I was forced to re-visit the hit five, six, maybe seven times over the course of a couple of months.

They'd hung it out this long and they sure as heck weren't going without a fight.

But I did it, I triumphed! I'd stripped them, filled them, screwed them, planed them, sanded them, caulked them, primed them, undercoated them, top coated them (take a breath) and finally, sat down to admire them.

They still needed .... something.

Yep. Some new carpet.

For now, my work was done. Time to hand the job back to the guy paying the bill. I just know him as, Mr DOAB. I think the "B" stands for bike, but who cares.

So you can imagine how upset Mr DOAB was (is 'upset' a strong enough word?), when the lovely carpet fitter called him out to "have a look" at what had happened on "one or two" of the stairs.

Every step was damaged to this amount, at least.

Unfortunately, a couple of the stairs looked more like this;

and this;

I'm pretty sure the boss never actually fainted, but he sure came over pretty green.

Two months of (genuinely) hard work undone in the space of two hours. Naturally, he now has the argument of some sort of compensation on his hands.

But that is later.

He need to lie down, clear his mind, take it easy.

That's where I come in.

Bullet.

Tracer Bullet.

No job too small.

Boys? Saddle up. We got a job to do. Gotta see a man about some stairs.

Look

2009-10-14T23:28:00.008+01:00

Perhaps I shouldn't find this so weird.

But I do.

Annabel has been bringing home her new words that she is learning at school so that we can practice them together and today she also brought home her first BOOK to read. Ok, it's called 'Look' and it only has 5 double pages, each with the word 'Look' on it but no matter, it's her first book and she is both delighted to be able to say she has a book to actually read (as opposed to something to merely browse the pictures in), as well as delighting in watching our reaction to her being able to 'read'.

She's reading for crying out loud, well done Missy, we are so proud of you, WELL DONE!!!

The bit I find a teensy bit weird is that it is exactly 2 years to the week that Joseph brought home the same book and the same words.

I know what you're thinking. Hey, they go to the same school, same classes, what's weird about that?

Well, teaching has gone through some fairly major changes in the past two years, none more so than the beginning of this year so yes, I stand by my claim of weirdness.

Well, I did only say it was a bit weird!

psst - well done Missy, you are SO clever!!!!

And now for something completely different!

2009-10-12T19:46:00.008+01:00

Well not completely different, no.

Just a bit different.

As in, just a tiny bit.

Kind of, a little bit similar.

Some elements you might recognise.

Several, then.

Alright, sod it, I admit it, one year on I am posting exactly the same post as I did before, ok? You happy now?

However, while wishing the wonderful M a happy wedding anniversary might reek of pure repetition, the number of years has changed, so there!!!

Happy 9th anniversary love - it keeps on getting better doesn't it.

(Doesn't it? Please tell me it's getting better, please, for gawd's sake!)

To celebrate, we went for a delicious buffet lunch at the Blue Elephant. Although they have branches in Dubai, Beirut, Moscow, Lyon and Bangkok (to name a few), we settled for their restaurant in Fulham, SW London.

(Hey, you've got to support your local businesses in these tough times, really you have)

Mind you, with their prestige spirits listing a glass of Glenmorangie Claret Wood for £71 (or the bottle for £1500), and 50ml of 1957 Bowmore for £191 (the bottle will set you back just over £4000), the place doesn't really seem to be struggling all that much to stay afloat.

We settled for sparkling mineral water (a snip at £5 a bottle!) and the kids had a fresh coconut sliced open and a straw inserted.

Although the rain stayed away, it was what you might call, rather blustery and while Joseph and Annabel "oohed & aahed" at the fishies swimming beneath the tables (you'd have to see it to believe it), M and I discussed making next year, our 10th, the year to make our way back to the Amalfi coast in order to celebrate in style and more or less guarantee a warm, inviting anniversary.

We'll see.

"You been away a long time Billy, I don't shine shoes no more"

2009-10-10T19:57:00.008+01:00

I remember vividly, a time when my Dad and I were play fighting in the front (or living), room; I think I was about 11 or 12 years old. I can also remember it was a Saturday morning, although exactly what that has to do with this post is unclear, even to me.

I can remember lots of laughter, trying to avoid getting tickled and generally having loads of fun, until a mis-timed knee caught me where guys try to avoid getting caught and all the wind was knocked out of me.

"Ouch", I groaned. "Right in my balls!"

I said it jokingly and continued to laugh, even though I was genuinely in pain.

My Dad stopped and looked at me like I'd slapped him hard in the face. He got up, turned, and walked out of the room, leaving me feeling ever so slightly confused.

I wasn't being a smart mouth. Sure, I'd heard the words in the playground and I knew too that the term 'balls' referred to a boys 'bits'. What I'd misjudged was when to and, more importantly, when not to, use the term. From memory, my Dad and I never discussed that episode further. I think it was enough that I knew never to say it again, at least, not in front of him.

Jump forward a generation and it's now my turn to deal with slang words for body parts.

Joseph was getting ready for a bath tonight and was finding it generally hilarious to run around his bedroom without a stitch on.

"You know what Dad? You know what [friend] calls these?" He kindly pointed to "those" in case I wasn't sure what he was referring to.

"No, I don't know", I offered back, trying to feign indifference when actually I was thrilled to be finding out what the 21st century terminology had to offer.

"BALLS!" Joseph squealed, clearly delighted at having enlightened me on the matter. It was obvious to him that it was his friend and his friend alone that had come up with this highly original and comic explanation.

"I see", I replied, folding his trousers and trying very hard not to let him see me smirking.

I needn't have bothered. Joseph was on his bedroom floor, slapping the floor while he hooted with laughter.

I carried on tidying up, checking on the bath water and telling him to get on with things.

Without calling for my attention, he continued.

"And d'you know what [other friend] says when we're playing football and the other team have a free kick?"

I avoided his look and continued tidying.

"Cover yer nuts!"

I looked at him this time; he was beaming from ear to ear, fit to bursting. It was all too much. We both exploded into laughter, me only slightly louder than he, rolling on the floor. A few minutes passed, only the sound of deep bath water still running broke the spell and I jumped up to turn off the taps.

I went back to him and explained how certain words weren't appropriate to use; yes he would probably use them with his friends but woe betide him if he got caught using them at any other time.

The memory of me saying it in front of my Dad is one of the more vivid one's I have. I always told myself that I would deal with any child of mine saying risqué words differently to how my Dad did, 30 odd years ago.

That day has actually arrived and yes, I handled things differently.

Who's to say, however, that my way is better? I mean, it sure felt better laughing about it with Joseph as opposed to walking out on him. But perhaps it will be my laughter that will stay with him, my reaction to his use of the word 'balls' and he won't be as aware of the strength of the word as a 'swear' word, or slang word and therefore, he will use it more freely.

Perhaps Joseph will remember the episode in 25 years.

I wonder how he'll handle it?

Rødgrød med fløde

2009-10-07T22:12:00.006+01:00

(Alert, alert, foodie type post alert!)

You know, sometimes, it's better to just stop, take a look around and realise that there is no point in trying to reinvent the wheel.

At the risk of having to wave off shouts of "you need to get out more, you dullard", I will admit that I have spent a rather disproportionate amount of time, trying to perfect the cooking of rice.

It's not that I've got nothing whatsoever to worry about in my life you understand; just that I like to have certain things in my repertoire that I can get right, all the time, every time.

And so it is with rice.

The staple diet for over 1.5 billion Chinese. The small/medium/large packet which will undoubtedly be sat somewhere in your larder, however far back. The base for many Oriental main courses. For Danish and English desserts. That seemingly innocuous little packet of elongated beads that children use to fill kitchen roll tubes with (rather than toilet roll tubes - more hygenic you see), at school to make shakey type musical instruments.

Whatever you think of it, rice plays a part in your life in some way, however small.

It just so happens that I have tried (and tried and tried and tried), to cook the stuff as close to perfection as I can, time in and time out. I have followed my HFW bible, Rose Prince's New English Kitchen, Raymond Blanc's Cooking for Friend's etc etc and so on and so forth, but all to no avail.

Yes, I know I need to get water to a simmer, wait for all water to evaporate and then cover with tea towel and leave for further 5-10 minutes. It does yield good results but at the bottom of the pan, I invariably end up with a thin layer of gelatinous rice that is not appealing.

One despairs, one really does.

Until, that is, one remembers back to one's childhood, watching one's own Mum cooking rice. How did she do it again???

And so, with a little bit of self imposed regression therapy that Derren Brown would be proud of, I managed to sneak glimpses of how Mum did it (with a little twist of my own, natch). She did it thus;

Soak and rinse desired amount of rice in cold water. Repeat until water is clear. Heat small glug of oil in large saucepan and throw in rice, stirring gently for 1 minute. Pour on boiling water and boil for required amount of time as stated on packet. Drain rice and rinse with freshly boiled water, cover with tea towel and leave for several minutes. Fluff with fork and serve.

Perfect.

Every time.

ps; please forgive non-rice related pic' - I was too busy gloating at how good my rice looked to remember to take a photo'!

Next time, I swear.

5537 8008

2009-10-06T16:28:00.006+01:00

Aaah, as always, it's the simple things in life that are best.

(Or should that be "free"?)

Either way, Joseph had decided to pay me a visit where I work and was delighted to see that I had a calculator on my desk. I never use the thing, obviously, as I have a brain that is akin to a very powerful computer processor and therefore I have no need whatsoever for a pathetic hand held device for working out simple sums.

Except when I'm marking maths homework of course when I find it invaluable.

After the novelty of me asking him sums to work out had worn off (it was sweet to see him amazed that the calculator got all the sums right, every time), I showed him how to write upside down with numbers.

I told him the numbers 77345 which he duly punched in and then I told him to turn it over.

Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it .........

"Oh, coo-o-ol", he grinned, clearly delighted. "It says SHELL".

"Yep, and there are other words that you can find too". I realised I had left myself wide open with this statement and before I could rectify my mistake, the question came.

"Like what? What other words can you spell Dad? Tell me what else?"

"Umm ....... well, you try. See if you can find any by yourself. I've got lots to do ok?"

Exit stage right Rodney, you dipstick!

I can hear it now. "Miss, my Dad showed me how to write words upside down on a calculator".

"Did he now? Did he really?"

Oh yeah, took advantage of the mild evening and took much neglected bike for a spin. I have been contemplating selling it due to lack of use (and to be honest, keeping it just because it has a starring role in the title of a blog is not really a sufficient enough reason).

But then I find a stretch of road where the speed limit is 60 mph and, well, suddenly selling it doesn't seem like such a good idea.

At all.

Howdy doody!

2009-10-01T21:20:00.008+01:00

Oh, where to start, where oh, where ... shall ... I ... start ....? Should I start with a moan and move on to happier things? Or shall I start out happily and slip slowly but undoubtedly into sulkiness?

Decisions, decisions.

I know, I think I'll flip this antique bronze sestertius coin from the Roman empire and if it's heads, I'll moan first but if it's tails, I'll get stuck in with a smile 'pon my face.

Hold on .......

It's heads.

(Oh goodie!!).

Right, first thing's first.

You, my beloved reader, may not even be aware that there is a 'search' function at the top left hand side of this page, allowing you to whizz through pages and pages of quality writing that I have laid down for your reading pleasure in the blink of an eye.

You may also not be aware that I too, make full use of this nifty little tool in order to avoid repeating myself and thus boring you all to tears. I mean, don't get me wrong, so powerful is my memory that I hardly ever use it for this purpose (I'd say, no more than once every other post), but I mention it to show you my commitment to keeping these pages as dross free as I possibly can.

It is with some annoyance therefore, that for several months now, this search function has not been working properly. I have tried searching for many different words that I know to be prevalent here but it returns only a smattering of offerings, if any.

The swine!

Hmmm... a search function that doesn't work but is owned by Google (who specialise in "searching". Would you Adam and Eve it?)

Anyway, if Blogger/Google are listening, please people, enough is enough, SORT IT OUT!

Ok, moan over (for now).

A rather nice thing happened today when the teacher that Joseph had while in the nursery 'wing' of his school turned up out of the blue - from New Zealand!! I saw her, we chatted, I ran to get Joseph from his classroom (it was after school hours) and said, "look who's here", standing back to see if he remembered her from over two years previous. It took no more than a second before he shouted her name, ran across the classroom to give her a hug and she, to her full credit, called his name (without any prompting from me) and hugged him right back. It was a brief encounter but a special one, nevertheless.

So special did we think this teacher, that I penned a wee poem in her honour. Not being one to crow about my poetry however, I wouldn't dream of bringing it up all over again, year in, year out, time and time again, goodness me, no!

(click HERE for a read of my brilliant poem, no obligation, only if you want to, like...)

Erm ... what else?

Oh yeah, Joseph and Annabel were both wiped out this evening so they were more than ready to get into bed slightly earlier than they have been. Joseph was asleep before I switched his light off, his gentle snore the obvious giveaway. However, Annabel was determined to read before I hit the dimmer switch for the last time, more a battle of the wills than a genuine desire to read.

Anyway, I tied her hair up as I usually do so she didn't spend the night wiping it from her face, tickling her and waking her (and therefore us), up. I could see she wasn't comfy though.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I'm not comfy", she replied, sitting up and looking back at her pillow.

After a couple of attempts at plumping up her pillow, the penny dropped.

"I think I know what's wrong", I smiled, watching her puzzled face.

I adjusted the bobble holding her hair from the back to the top of her head.

"Poor bubba, how are you supposed to sleep lying on that eh? Silly Dad!!"

I realised the problem as I know all too well how frustrating it is to have a bobble of hair keeping you awake due to the fact that I too once had thick, lustruou ........

"What's that dear? Stop going on about my once thick and lustruous locks?"

"Yes dear".

"Whassat dear?"

"Stop bemoaning the fact that I am losing my hair and that in your opinion no-one gives a damn?"

"I see dear. No dear. No, absolutely dear. Yes, I'll make you a cup right away dear. Won't keep you a minute".

Ri-i-ight then, I guess I'd better wrap this up for the night. What else did I want to say? Ooh, yes, that's it, I haven't even mentioned the reason I actually sat down to write tonight.

I've been blabbing on about my writing afor the past half hour when actually I wanted to be telling you about Lord Parker's writing in his debut thriller STOP ME. The cover below may look familiar for two reasons. Either;

a) You've already bought a copy or

b) You've seen my pictures of it here when it arrived a month ago.

I have to admit to having finished it over a week ago but did I do what I normally do with the books I've read and offer you a review, however measly?

No, I did not.

But here I am.

Reading it, at first I was thrown by the familiar place names and roads that were mentioned. For some reason, being able to picture the A3 dual-carriageway out of London distracted me from the actual story.

But not for long.

With thrillers not really being an obvious genre of book for me, the name Simon Kernick below the applause on the front cover didn't mean all that much to me, but if you Google him (you know, Google, the SEARCH function people, grrr.......), you will see that he is a fairly big cheese in the thriller writing world, so to have him praising your first book is no mean feat.

What he wrote though is absolutely spot on.

"Tightly written, fast paced, keeps you turning the pages".

It was all of those things, and more. Again, with thrillers not being my number one choice, the fact that this is a page turner was important. It is very easy to read; it's very easy to associate with the main character (we'd all act the same way, given the impossible-to-imagine circumstances).

Rather stupidly, I seem to want to test and push myself with books. I say "stupidly" because the only real time I get to read is at bedtime and, speaking from experience, there is little point in picking up a book at quarter to midnight which discusses the socio-political landscape of Lebanon in the late 1980's (no, I'm not kidding), when all your body wants to do is sleep!

What I need is a fast paced thriller that keeps me turning the pages and in STOP ME, that's exactly what I got. Whereas my usual choice of book had me reading for a page or two before nodding off, with RJP's thriller, I found myself glancing over at the clock, several nights on the spin, grimacing at the time looking back at me.

Anyway, don't take my word for it (why would you?). Get yourself a copy here.

And like I said before, get in touch and I'll have Lord Parker write a personal message inside the front cover.

Or the back cover, for that matter!!!

G'night.

Herbert Spencer was right

2009-09-28T23:31:00.003+01:00

"Children all learn at different speeds".

How many times in these politically correct days have we heard those words?

"Don't worry if the other parents are saying that their child is already reading and yours isn't interested in books; all children will get there eventually". (Wherever 'there' is!).

I was talking to a teacher the other day about my concerns over certain pupils lack of basic skills and what were we able to do to help. After all, when you drop your child off at school, you fully expect them to be getting all the help they need in order to learn whatever it is they require to get into a desirable secondary school and from there, to enter the job market in an advantageous position.

What I was told pretty much boiled down to, 'not much'. It seems that unfortunately, if a pupil isn't on target to do well by then end of Year 5, then the attention of the school 'must turn' to children that are expected to do well.

"Eh? How does that work then?" I enquired.

She explained how the SAT's and Ofsted inspections were to blame. Consecutive governments (in their infinite wisdom), deem a school that does not meet a minimum target of (very high) grades as set by the government, to be a "failing" school and graded appropriately. As you are no doubt aware, these grades are published nationally in the form of league tables. Governments tick off the school governors, the governors tick off the Headteacher, the Headteacher ticks off the teachers and the teachers tick off nobody - they are the end of the line.

So what happens?

Teachers realise that in order to avoid all this telling off, filtering from Downing Street to their classrooms, they have to focus on the children that will do well; it really is the survival of the fittest. Unfortunately, in the wake of the strong learners are the many who just don't get equivalent fractions; those who just don't know where to put their full stops and capital letters.

As a parent though, I can't help but feel slightly horrified by this set up. I mean, M and I both spend several hours each week reading with our children, having them (well, Joseph at the moment) read to us, working on writing, going through maths questions etc but I know for a fact that many of the children at school don't have anyone to go through their work with them; no-one to push them to achieve, to help them, to nurture them.

So if they're not getting the support at home and the schools can't afford to spare the time to bring them fully up to speed (which is the bottom line, let's face it), it would seem that their young lives are over before they've really started! If they walk out of primary school with vital knowledge missing, they sure ain't gonna be able to really catch up in secondary - I'm talking about the real basic building blocks of education.

Have you got children? Make sure you read to them, every day, hear them read to you, sit and go through their maths even if it isn't your strong point. Do whatever it takes to support their learning. On a daily basis I see what a busy and demanding day they have at school and they're only 4, 5, 6 .... 8, 9, 10 years old!!

Man, who'd be a kid again??

"Pop in my CD and let me run a rhyme, and put your car on cruise and lay back cause this is summertime"

2009-09-24T21:50:00.008+01:00

Well no, actually, it isn't, but you would be forgiven for thinking that it still is, such was the beauty of the weather today. It is making our new years resolution (the academic year, natch), to walk to school and back rather easy, as opposed to jumping into the car for the fairly short journey.

I have to be honest though; I am not sure how much longer we'll be travelling "green". The mornings are darker, the evenings are getting shorter and this morning was distinctly 'fresh'. The cold I can handle; the rain is another story though.

I don't like it, plain and simple. I can almost stomach getting a drenching on the way home when we can all change into something warm, but on the way to work? To school?

As Daryl Hall and John Oates once said, "I can't go for that, no-o-o ...... no can do".

Ne'er a truer word spoken.

Us happy campers at 8.20am this morning.

Another win Mr Abramovich!

2009-09-20T22:05:00.007+01:00

Today's the day.

The Big One.

In place of his annual birthday party where Joseph and 15 or so of his friend's get to scoff cake and run around like loons, I took Joseph and his bestest chum to watch a game of football in trendy Chelsea.

We had lunch near the stadium, went shopping for scarves, flags and programmes, and managed to time everything to perfection, finding our places just 5 minutes before kick off.

One thing I learnt today was this; keeping a close eye on your own children in busy places is one thing. Being entrusted to keep a close eye on a child who isn't yours in a very busy place is another thing entirely.

I was happy to sit down!

We were treated to 3 goals, two of which were scored in front of where we were sat (ie, at "our" end) and afterwards, our football fanatic neighbour had invited us up to the private bar where he entertains corporate clients. I have to admit feeling just a teensy bit smug at being waved through by the all-in-black suited and booted doormen, whilst listening to others being told that it was a private bar. "Sorry, your name's not down, you're not coming in".

I have no idea what those people thought a scruffy, rucksack wearing individual such as myself and two 7 year olds wearing football tops were doing being waved through security but who cares though, hah, we were going in!!

Actually, those strangers whom we glided past at the door had the last laugh I reckon, the drink prices in that bar were extortionate!! Having said that, Ron Harris himself was swanning around the place and I know enough about football to know to get a picture of that man!! I'm sure the two boys will appreciate the picture I took of them with "Chopper" Harris in years to come.

Either way, it was definitely a day to remember.

And just in case Joseph's memory lets him down in years to come, I had his picture put in the programme wishing him a happy birthday.

There's nothing like a bit of forward planning!!!!

The big screen.

41, 293 in attendance.

Watching a "chopper" of a different kind come in to land at Wandsworth heli-pad.

"Hippo birdie to you, hippo birdie to you ..."

2009-09-17T20:46:00.008+01:00

Hippo birdie dear Joseph
Hippo birdie to you!"

Well well well, seven years old today and dammit, if he doesn't look a day over ....... 7.

What's yer secret Joseph, c'mon, tell us all, what is it, hmm ... hmm ...?

A birthday on a school day - it's fine now but wait until secondary school; then it won't be so great, trust me - so up earlier than usual for brekkie followed by present opening. A postal strike meant that minimal cards arrived; not that this was noticed thanks to pressies from us.

Actually, I think things worked out rather nicely for Joseph this year. He had his gifts from us today, he is due more gifts at his tea party on Saturday and on Sunday, I'm taking him and his best friend to a football match in place of an actual party proper.

To be honest, we were relieved when he said he would rather not have a full blown par-tay this year; we have no room for anymore toys!

When we came out of school this afternoon, he was smiling on our walk home, saying that he'd had "a really good day".

Music to my ears!

Happy birthday Smudge - we're glad you enjoyed your day.

Damn my slowing metabolism!!

2009-09-15T22:44:00.006+01:00

Short but funny conversation between Joseph and I on the walk home from school today.

Joseph: "Dad. What's a six pack?"

Me (after sniggering): "Why?"

Joseph: "Because Michael in my class says his Dad's got a six pack".

Me: "Heh heh ... yeah, lots of Dads' do have six packs Poops. They're the muscles in your stomach. They stick out a bit and they're are six of them".

Joseph (pulling up his shirt and peering at his belly): "Can I get a six pack one day? Ple-e-ease!"

Me: "If you want".

Joseph: "Co-o-o-oool!"

Me (continuing): "Then they (meaning me) get older, do less exercise and their six pack slowly disappears. You have to do about a million sit-ups a day to get a six pack".

Joseph was smiling by now, not hearing what I was saying.

I however, was not smiling.

I must stop eating those biscuits in the staff room.

"In the name of love, what more in the name of love"

2009-09-07T22:46:00.005+01:00

In a complete reversal of "what to expect", M and I mis-read todays events almost as much as we'd mis-read them for Annabels' trip to the doctors last week (see here).

With that day, we'd expected tears and crying but we were wrong.

Today, we expected only excitement and happiness and again, we were wrong.

Actually, 'wrong' doesn't quite cover it, we were well off the mark!

As has turned out to be the case on more than one occasion, what we managed to do for our first born, we didn't manage to replicate for the second. The week before Josephs' first day at school, we dressed him in his uniform, got him used to it, took some pictures, made a fuss and so on.

With Annabel, we didn't - more out of a lack of time than anything else but a 'lack of time' doesn't mean much in a childs' eyes. Having said that, perhaps it wouldn't have made any difference and we are beating ourselves up for nothing, such is the tragedy of parenthood!

Either way, with me at work and lucky enough to be keeping an eye out for her arrival and to see her for the first time in all her finery, M had a devil of a job getting her to keep the clothes on. Much screaming and tantrum-ing later (two hours worth), they appeared at the locked gate.

I could tell something was amiss thanks to the colour of Missys' sobbing face, the tears still fresh on her cheeks. My cuddle did nothing to alleviate her stress, nor could the appearance of her previous nursery teacher (whom Annabel loves!).

M did the only thing she could do and walked away (as did I, it was my lunch break) and I sat and looked at M across a coffee table looking upset herself, worrying about how our daughter was getting on.

She needn't have worried.

Upon my return, I saw Annabel playing happily with her friends, old ones and new ones, pleased with herself at having been asked to help make them feel at home in their new school.

I have watched her play in that playground for the past 8 months and all that has changed really is that she is now wearing a very smart uniform.

This small difference however, has proved more than enough to make me need to keep swallowing the lump that kept threatening in my throat.

That lump called "Pride".

"I'm a Goofy Goober .... "

2009-09-06T23:41:00.012+01:00

Another week, another seaside town to discov .... oh no, hang on, we went back to exactly the same place we went to last week for M's birthday - Whitstable.

The reason we were so keen to go back was quite simple; we wanted to sample the seafood that we weren't able to try before. The difference this time around was that we went on the train; a different kind of adventure entirely.

On the journey down there I discovered words that I don't usually use on a jaunt across country. Words such as, "hey, look at that amazing yellow field", or "quick, look at that light aircraft skimming the trees".

This was a huge departure from my often repeated phrase of "can you be QUIET, I am trying to drive" and "do you want me to turn around and go home?"

Upon arrival, our day went something like this;

Walked to harbour, ordered half dozen oysters, plate of whitebait, some cockles, some prawns and a portion of fries. Continued to ice cream van for 99's, walked along stony beach (admiring beautiful narrow houses) to a quiet spot on the beach where we had stone throwing competitions. Walk back to harbour, pausing to sample local (well, as local as they could) ale, pausing to stop off at alternative oyster house for another half dozen, some King Prawns (they deserve the capital letters, they were massive) and some more whitebait, albeit minus the wonderfully creamy tartare sauce as had earlier been the case.

The oysters were all delicious, the whitebait freshly fried in a lovely light breadcrumb and the prawns extremely meaty. I could tell you how well the oyster stout accompanied the oysters but that would be stating the bleedin' obvious, so I will leave it there.

Visit Whitstable.

It's lovely.

"The Queen's Commendation for bravery goes to ..."

2009-09-04T22:26:00.007+01:00

I remember being taken to see the doctor or the dentist when I was little and as I reminisce, I don't seem to sense a great deal of bravery being present at the time.

One of my clearest memories surrounding health workers of any kind is of going to see the dentist with my Dad. It was near London Bridge (sort of) and every 6 months the reminder would obviously land on the floor and off we would go.

Now, my Dad has never had any major health issues - long may it continue (come to think of it, he's never had any minor ones either), not so much as a single filling. And so, being totally devoid of any fear of health practitioners, off we would march to see le dentiste.

It was, I suppose, a relatively run of the mill dental surgery in what was then, a fairly run down pocket of London. It was on a main road so I remember the front was incredibly dirty from all the car and bus fumes, the narrow corridor and staircase up suffering a similar fate thanks to the front door opening and closing.

We would sit, we would wait, Dad would get his teeth looked at (never any problems) and then I would get mine done. This invariably involved a filling of some description but the trauma of it was lessened by being allowed to wave my index finger at the dentist, this seemingly insignificant action resulting in him ceasing to inflict discomfort upon me.

Momentarily, at least.

Finally, job done, my Dad would get a smile, I would get a pat on the head and we would leave, not to return for another 183 days or thereabouts.

And then it all changed.

It was the first time I'd made the journey by myself. I can't remember exactly how old I was but I was feeling pretty pleased with myself; off to the dentist alone, not bad.

My suspicions that everything was not as it should be were first aroused when my arrival wasn't met with the same enthusiasm as when my Dad was present. Nevertheless, I forged ahead with the appointment.

"Perhaps his last patient was a troublesome one", I thought to myself, still waiting for him to recognise me as surely, the son of one of his favourite patients, my Dad.

The crowning turd in the water pipe however was still to come when it appeared that waggling my magic finger appeared to have no impact on the dentists' actions whatsoever.

I waggled (he drilled), I waggled some more (he drilled), in fact I almost smacked him in the nose with my waggling finger but the smell of burning stone continued to fill my nostrils.

Holding back some (admittedly slightly wimpish tears), I sat and listened to Christian Szell (not his real name, obviously), tell me what he'd done and that he would see me in 6 months time.

No pat on the head, no smile, no nothing.

Out you go son, on your way.

I can't remember that I ever went back to him and hence the need for dental treatment to this day. Actually, I never thought about it but without his rough treatment, I may not have needed to visit the dentist all those years later when I met my lovely wife so perhaps I should thank him?

Anyway, my dental visits weren't what I wanted to tell you about; it was about bravery in the company of white coats and today Missy showed exceptional bravery when neither M nor I thought she would.

It was a simple pre-school booster and, armed with a 'treat' for being good, we went in to the surgery.

I tried to distract her from the needle but it didn't work; she saw it. I tried to keep her talking while the nurse wiped her arm with a sterile wipe but it didn't work; she looked intently at her own arm. I drummed my fingers on the table and tapped the box in which her treat was contained but it didn't work; she looked off into the distance as the needle punctured her little fleshy arm.

I expected a jump and a wail but no, nothing.

Even the nurse said how brave she had been and not all children her age were as good.

Well done Missy.

' hope you don't have to have too many of those!

Ma fille l'artiste

2009-09-02T22:59:00.009+01:00

While Joseph enjoyed many hours at nursery and in reception class drawing various pictures, he rarely chose to do the same when at home. He would rather play 'with' something than create or draw something.

Annabel on the other hand, loves drawing. Perhaps I shouldn't say this but it is actually a little heart breaking to see her so engrossed in her own company, happily sat on her bedroom floor, pens scattered all around her, creating a multitude of colourful pictures.

And what an artist she is!

It's amazing though, seeing how much her pictures change in such a short space of time. Just a couple of months in fact.

From weird and wonderful grinning freaks .....

.. to a bed full of people with far more human faces than before (not sure who the 5th person is!) .....

.. to an apple.

But take a moment, if you will, to observe the shape of the fruit, the shading, the cross hatching, not to mention the highly accurate stalk.

Honestly, I don't know where that girl gets her talent from!!

No, seriously, I dunno where it comes from??!?

"When I count my blessings - I count her twice"

2009-08-29T21:57:00.018+01:00

"ZZZZzzzz ..."

"ZZZzzz..."

Zzz.."

"Whassat, what the ... what happened, did I nod off?"

Sorry 'bout that, it's been a très busy week and I'm not entirely sure where to start. I tell you what, I''ll let my ever present camera help me out.

Things that have happened this week are as follows;

We had a BBQ (ahem, I cooked the food to perfection)

Knowing that their mother is highly allergic to egg, it is difficult to get the children to try them. They know they don't like boiled eggs, they know they don't like fried eggs so I thought I would ask them if they would to try scrambled eggs.

They did and they enjoyed them!

I made damson jam courtesy of fruit collected from my parent's beautiful garden (although we came away with enough fruit for 20 jars of jam, life is too short; I made 5 in total (1 is out of shot)). It tasted great; sweet but with a hint of 'tartness'.

Lord Parker's book arrived courtesy of Amazon (finally).

We picked tomatoes from our rather splendid hanging baskets (they tasted great but the skin was a tad tough).

I bought some tequila to "try". (It was bloody great).

*hic*

What was the other thing?

Oh dammit, what was that other thing that happpened?

Come on brain, work, work ......

Oh yeah, that was it, M's birthday, I knew there was something!! Not just any old birthday but her 40th birthday - note how I was happy to dive straight in with her age as oppoed to the faffing I introduced around mine earlier in the year - (that reminds me, the search function isn't working on my blog right now, you'll have to manually navigate yourself there if you can be bothered - 8th March).

We went to Whitstable which is situated on the Kent coast.

I had planned to have oysters (and lots of 'em) but my battered haddock, chips, mushy peas and tartar sauce 'done me in' and I could face no more food at all (I sit here writing at 10.30pm and am not in the slightest bit hungry).

It was a different day out from the norm' though and highly enjoyable. The children bought their Mum a beautiful bracelet and I bought her something else (*)

The children also made their own cards which were, quite simply, fan-flippin'-tastic. Well done them.

Happy birthday to my beautiful wife M'.

We love you very, very much!

(* = haven't actually bought it yet!!!)

"A one two three four five six seven eight n-i-i-i-i-ine te-n-n-n"

2009-08-22T20:27:00.013+01:00

Eleven.

Count 'em.

Eleven long days in the wilderness. It's the longest amount of time I have allowed to pass between posts (if you ignore the short, scared one I added on Monday asking you to keep your fingers crossed for me).

"What has happened?" I hear you cry. "Do you not care enough about us anymore to keep us informed with the day to day tripe we occasionally stop by to read upon these green tinged pages?"

Well as a matter of fact dahlings, yes I do care and I have a damn good reason for my prolonged absence.

Viruses.

Not the swine flu variety but a full blown, niggling, awkward son of a beech hidey little bleeder of a computer virus and dammit if I just couldn't shift it!

I pride myself with the fact that generally I am savvy enough to keep my PC functioning fairly well (stay with me here, I'm not geeking out on you) and, thanks to anti-virus and spyware software, that's how things tend to be.

But even I, Dad himself, had to admit defeat and call in the Big Guns, or in this case, some local geezer who had dropped his card through the letterbox recently.

Anyway, I'm all better now, thank you for asking and I think I will just jump right back in like I'd never been away.

With the type of short term memory I possess however, (a stinkingly bad one), I tend to post here quite often (recent events aside) for a very good reason. Something happens during the day or someone makes a funny comment and I carry it around in my head until late evening when I am free to sit down and share it with you.

A very helpful aid of mine is the easily accessible voice recorder in my mobile 'phone which I tend to use as a memo recorder; a few words to trigger my memory later in the day or week and there you go, I have another post to waffle on about.

You'd think then, that after all this time I would have loads to tell you but alas this is not the case. In the same week that I opt out of using my PC until Mr IT got it sorted for me, my 'phone also goes down the pan after making some very strange noises that would be more familiar if R2D2 were standing next to you.

(can you see where I'm going with this???)

Let us summarise.

This past week, I have had NO memo recorder.

This past ten years I have had NO short term memory.

Therefore, I have NO specific tales to tell.

Oh sure, the children have made me roar with laughter over the past week and yes, there have been umpteen situations that have warranted a mention here but they were obviously not meant to be.

"Hah ha ha ha, that's hilarious, I must make a note of that so I can blog about it", I have said on more than one occasion, but short of sticking fingers in both ears to stop the damn thoughts dribbling out of my grey matter and down my ear lobes, there hasn't been a great deal I could do to stop them being washed down the drain.

One little story that is both lovely and funny though is this. One sunny day late last week, Joseph and Annabel were playing in our little garden while I was tidying up/putting a wash on/preparing some food etc. They had ensconsed themselves in separate corners of the lawn and while Annabel was playing with actual toys of hers on the grass, I was more intrigued with what Joseph was doing.

I stood a few feet away from him and watched until he was aware of me crouching there.

He was hunched over and kneeling but drew himself upright, smiling at what he was about to tell me.

"What's this?" I asked, smiling back at him.

"It's to help insects", he beamed.

"Really? How does that work then?" I asked, genuinely intrigued.

"Well, if any insects fall into the green bowl of water, then they can climb out onto the stick, walk along the stick into the sun where they can dry out and then climb down the stones and go home".

He said this while pointing at the different stages of the bugs' journey from impacting on the water to regaining their freedom. He looked so delighted with himself that I had to give him a hug. To be honest, I had to hug him anyway because I had burst out laughing before he had quite finished explaining his rescue plan.

I tried to explain to Joseph that if he hadn't put the bowl of water there in the first place, he wouldn't need to save any creatures unfortunate enough to land in it!

All I could think of was the terrific scene in Spinal Tap where Nigel Tufnel is explaining how his amp goes up to eleven, not ten, like most amps. (read the excellent conversation here).

"But if they do fall in", he insisted and clearly still pleased with himself at his thoughfulness, "they can use my escape route".

"Ok Poops, you win. Let's find some bugs and chuck 'em in!"

(It's good to be back!!)

Small print: no insects were harmed during the making of this post.

Oh lummee!

2009-08-17T23:59:00.002+01:00

Normal service will resume shortly.

Fingers crossed!

The difference a decade (or two) makes

2009-08-11T21:19:00.006+01:00

It doesn't seem all that long ago (no, really), that if I found myself in a Doctor's waiting room or a hospital outpatients department, I would be reading the free literature appropriate to my age and lifestyle.

"Are you practising safe sex?"

"Attracting the opposite sex"

"Coping with being a teenager"

"Drinking in your 20's?"

... etc, etc and so on and so forth, blah blah blah.

Today I had an appointment at the hospital for my ever troublesome ankle (it's been over a year, dammit!!!) and, as you do, I picked up the literature appropriate for my age and lifestyle.

"Osteoarthritis"

"Living with rheumatoid arthritis"

"So you're going to have a steroid injection?"

Hello?

Ex-squeeze me?

What happened there? Is this really how it goes; a seemingly gradual (but not nearly as gradual as I'd like) slide into middle age?

I think I'm gonna buy me a skateboard!!

Maybe.

Lazy, good for nothing twerp!

2009-08-10T19:29:00.010+01:00

Yep, that's me! I re-read what I'd written yesterday.

Is that the best I could do?

Is that all I got?

Dang, is there no bottom to the depths of laziness I will happpily plumb to in order to not sit and inform you, oh faithful reader, of the general goings on in my pitiful life??? I could blame it on the 6 hour drive home but that wouldn't work.

Would it?

I hang my head in shame .....

Ok, now for a proper post.

Devon is "rocking" (apart from the food - that bit was accurate!). The weather was fan-dabby-dozy, the beaches were enormous and sandy, the waves were "out there dude" and our chalet was just about right.

Ok, there were a lot of young guys 'n' gals who had clearly spent an inordinate amount of time perfecting their beach bum look (I don't care how naff I sound, wearing O'Neill clothing from your hat, down through your wetsuit to your flip flops does not look as cool as you think it does!! Oh no it doesn't!!).

I haven't seen such amazing waves since Chiclana beach in Spain a lon-n-ng time ago. I forgot how much fun it was to be thrown towards the beach by a powerful wave and then, before you've managed to surface long enough for a proper breath, be dragged back out and down whether you like it or not.

We visited Arlington Court, courtesy of the National Trust and the children got to dress up in Victorian costumes, play Victorian games and try writing using old quills and nibs (see Annabel in previous post pics).

The more we holiday in the UK, the more I realise not only how steeped in history it is but also how incredibly beautiful it is. Being a Londoner, it is easy to forget about huge, patchwork countryside, sprawling for mile after mile after mile.

I am not a fan of modern architecture by any stretch of the imagination but I fell in love with Baggy House which is situated on the coastal path heading out to Baggy Point (surprisingly enough). It looks like a modern extension on the front of an old cottage/farmhouse and it is BEE-YOO-TI-FUL! There ain't a lot on Google Images so you may have to click on my picture of it (last post), although I admit to taking loads of shots of it. Joseph and I went up to the main gate for a closer look just as the owner decided to walk down the driveway.

Doh!

She was very understanding I must say; we had all but climbed over her gate in a bid to get "the" shot of her house.

We drank some wine (did I say "we", I meant "me"; M no drinky), I drank some local ale (Exmoor brewery, the Beast at 6.6% - goodnight sweetheart) and we watched a lot of films. With the children we watched Madagascar 2 (very funny), Ice Age 1 & 2 (not bad) and High School Musical (clench cheeks now).

M and I also watched two superb films which arrived with the post-woman (post-person?), barely 10 minutes before we set off from home on the Saturday previous (sweeet!). These were Etz Limon (Lemontree), a terrific film highlighting the politics and hopelessness of the Palestinian/Israeli problem (here he goes again - what can I say, it's an interest of mine) and Waltz with Bashir, an animated film which was Oscar nominated, BAFTA nominated and winner of a Golden Globe.

Watch them both - they are riveting.

There; that's more like it!

Surf dudes!

2009-08-09T23:09:00.021+01:00

It always surprises me slightly that after a week of being away from home, away from the city, away from work, away from computers, I seem to struggle to get 'back in the zone' for posting my daily/weekly drivel here. I mean, I look forward to writing again, I love the fact that I can waffle on for hours at a time but sit me down in front of a keyboard and a monitor after a very short break and ...... nothing.

Thank gawd I take plenty of pictures!

Ooh, I must point out however that we were once again very disappointed at the distinct lack of decent seafood restaurants. It's the English coast for goodness sake; don't make me send Gordon down to start effing and blinding at someone!!!

As always, click to enlarge.

"Right here's where you start paying - in sweat!"

2009-07-31T23:32:00.004+01:00

As mentioned, the children have been at a dance workshop this week and they are exhausted. Their week culminated in a short performance of the dancing they have learnt over the last 5 days.

In my humble opinion, and as a former mover and groover myself (oh lawd, did he just say what I think he just said?), (yes he did), Joseph is pretty sharp. Annabel too shimmies with the best of them and I'm sure in another couple of years, her confidence will have grown sufficiently to see her through the same performance with aplomb.

Well done kids - we're glad you had a good time.

Smashing embroidered T-shirt's courtesy of dance teacher - 'fanks Miss!

Picture snob!

2009-07-30T23:17:00.005+01:00

I know, I know, I've already posted a picture of my fave sculpture in London but as I already said to you, my pictures were rushed.

It was just M and I who ambled along the King's Road last Friday but tonight it was the four of us. We parked in almost exactly the same place, strolled across the bridge, popped into the same shops but ate in a different restaurant.

I thought Joseph had been rather naughty up until this point but as is often the case, his behaviour is usually linked directly to his hunger levels and he was complaining incessantly about being "starving".

We went to Stockpot - an old favourite of ours before our children arrived - and Joseph wolfed down a plate of whitebait, some hoummus, some pitta bread, followed by the biggest piece of fish I have seen in a while, a chocolate milkshake and a large glass of water before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and announcing that he would like dessert!

He had a ice cream cone in case you're wondering.

Having said that, Annabel also polished off the majority of her spaghetti bolognese, also followed by ice cream.

It has helped that they have been at a street dance club this week because they have been taking a packed lunch and they have realised that they are not full after this type of lunch.

I know what you're thinking - they obviously don't have enough to eat in the day - well, you'd be wrong. A typical lunch bag consists of a ham roll or sandwich, a bag of (baked) crisps, a cheese stick or dipper, a gingerbread man or muffin, a yoghurt drink, a bottle of water and a piece of fruit. On top of this, their teacher provides them with extra fruit but they still emerge hungry.

I said that this was helpful because friend's of theirs have switched to packed lunch and they too want to do the same; until now!! They are happy with school meals because they aren't hungry after school.

Result!!!

Oh yeah, I prefer this picture. You would be lucky to get a shot of this sculpture without any traffic in the background but this one works better. I also got to explain to Joseph about the "troops breaking step" sign on the bridge (see previous post), which was nice.

Famous statue No.2

2009-07-25T16:28:00.011+01:00

Well, last night was one of those rare evenings when M and I had some time to ourselves. The children had gone to my parents for a 'sleepover' and so I picked M up from work with a view to mooching and eating.

After brief deliberation, we agreed on the King's Road, not because we are trendy or 'owt (far from it), but because it was our regular stomping ground when we lived behind Battersea Park.

And so we parked on the southside of Albert Bridge (my favourite London bridge), and walked across before being confronted by what is possibly my favourite London sculpture. Actually, the bridge and the sculpture are my favourite London landmarks for the same reason.

Whenever we headed off on holiday, my Dad would drive this route to the airport; around Battersea Park, across Albert Bridge (where I would never tire of reading the sign that "All troops must break step when crossing this bridge"), turn left at the lights, just allowing time to glance up at the Boy on a Dolphin.

Now, I'm no art aficionado so I can't tell you what was going on in David Wynne's head when he made it but I can tell you that it is very beautiful. I can also tell you that it is cleverly balanced on just the dolphin's tail with the Boy holding on to the dorsal fin.

Anyway, my rushed pictures do no justice whatsoever to this lovely sculpture so head across the loveliest bridge in the capital and sit and admire it yourselves for a little while.

"Headmaster's had enough today, all the kids have gone away .."

2009-07-23T19:46:00.006+01:00

8 thank you cards, 5 boxes of chocolate and 7 (yes, seven) bottles of wine. It seems like some parents really do appreciate the work you do with their children.

Following these gifts, some very supportive and appreciative words from the Headteacher pretty much guaranteed my good mood, which stayed with me for the rest of the evening in a small beer garden, local to the school.

Getting home at a sensible time and, more importantly, entirely coherent, meant that I had a pretty wonderful end to my first academic year at my new-ish job. And, for the first time in a very long time, I am actually looking forward to starting back there in September.

After 6 weeks holiday, of course!!!

Then I'll huff, and I'll puff ..."

2009-07-21T23:56:00.004+01:00

Will it rain or won't it, that is the question? It had been raining on and off during the run up to the final week of school and everyone was very keen for a dry end to the academic year.

Why?

Well, yesterday was Carnival Day; a day to celebrate the 'cultural diversity of the school'. The school is made up of many different cultures which are represented in varying degrees. There is the Irish community (lots of), Sri Lanka (also lots), various African countries (Ghana, Eritrea, Cameroon - a fair amount), Chinese (some) and the titchiest of all those represented, Lebanon (two!).

Well, half Lebanese, natch.

(Their good half is English)

*snigger*

Anyways, anyone who cares to, cooks, bakes or makes some food commonly found in their country of origin - we made (a lot of) falafel, houmous and batlawa (otherwise known as baklava which is of Turkish origin and similar to the Greek version).

So after the children had performed a variety of dance from their specified country, everyone lined up outside the hall to sample food from around the world.

I say "sample" but some people looked like they had deliberately starved themselves so they would be able to chow down as much as was humanly possible. The staff (myself included), reminded people that it was a chance to taste many different foods and that it wasn't in fact, dinner time!

Some people are pigs.

Still, that was yesterday.

Today was Sports Day, the chance for some children to excel at running whilst balancing an egg (or potato) on a spoon (like Joseph) and for others to stop halfway along the track, realising they're being left way behind and to burst into tears.

Like Annabel.

Being a member of staff at the school however, I couldn't really run to her, but thankfully a colleague ran to collect her.

That damn rubber quoit just wouldn't sit on her head and try as she might, it just kept falling off. I could see her looking around for help, her bottom lip beginning to wobble, seeing no-one and tried one final time before it all got too much for her. The offending quoit rolled unevenly across the playground and Missy stood still, a wail bursting forth with a 'more powerful than normal' force.

Poor Missy.

Thankfully however, her next two races resulted in 3rd places for both and the small laminated medal was more than enough recompense for the lopsided rubber ring (which had clearly been sabotaged!!!)

Like many people in this day and age, I have hundreds, possibly thousands of pictures and movies of the children, all stored on my PC. 99% of them make me smile and laugh when I look back at them. There are a few though, that give me a lump in my throat.

The little video's of Annabel running towards me at the finishing line are pretty good examples of this. The setting off a little late, only after she realised her friend's had started. Her little arms and legs pumping to catch up. The stopping in front of the finishing line rather than bursting through it and finally, the searching look on her face, hoping for a medal, wondering if she'd done enough.

You can tell your children as many times as you like that "it's not the winning that's important, it's the taking part", but when you're 4 years old, it doesn't make losing any easier.

My family and other animals

2009-07-18T23:09:00.012+01:00

Everyone, without exception, saw the cover of the book I was reading and came up to ask if it was a follow on from The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.

Oh no, hang on, not everyone, just everyone I know.

Silly me.

Why do people say that? Is it to let you (and the people in the room) know that they know books, they know literature and want all around to know this?

For the record, no, this book is NOT a follow on from Curious Incident, it is a stand alone book and I thought it was absolutely terrific. For your information, I haven't read the 'first' book. This book is my first encounter with Mark Haddon.

The cover says "brilliant ... very funny" and it does have very funny parts but I thought, overall, it was more poignant than funny. It cleverly shows the many facets that make up a 'family' and all the love and laughter and problems that come with them.

I knew I was enjoying this book, but it wasn't until tonight that I realised how much. While M got her weekly fix of TV drama, I poured myself a pint of Spitfire and slumped on our sofa, book in hand, and read until I'd finished it.

Any book that give you goosebumps on a Saturday night, that makes you want to laugh and cry within a few pages of each other, that makes you want to hug the main characters, is a winner in my .. erm .... book.

Read it.

You'll thank me.

For the recommendation, that is!

"We want the finest wines available to humanity"

2009-07-17T22:35:00.007+01:00

It's simple.

I helped make some scenery, do some painting, general behind-the-scenes stuff, helped on the opening night, made myself pretty indespensable etc etc.

On the second night when I'm not there, the headteacher thanks me for all my hard work and asks me to step from behind the curtains to collect my flowers.

They were collected on my behalf which is not the same!

Grrrrrr ......

"It's got RAM, it's got ROM, it's got them red and green lights, everything!"

2009-07-13T00:32:00.013+01:00

We went to collect my birthday present yesterday (4 months late - ' can't get the spouses these days) and I was pretty excited. Now I know that a radio isn't everybodies idea of whooping it up on one's birthday but trust me, this is no ordinary radio.

(Forgive me if the following sounds like it's come straight off the pages of "Nerd Weekly - The Radio Buyer's Guide").

It's a Roberts - natch - model Sound 41 and although this one brings my tally to 5 (or 6), it is oh-so-different to any others I own. Reading reviews about it online, as you do, one person had written that it was "made of cheap plastic, not what (he) would expect from Roberts". I have to say I agree with him. The body is plastic, the body does feel a bit cheap, especially the handle, which looks like it wouldn't take too much pulling about by anyone.

The Roberts radio's of yester-year were sturdy and rugged, looked like it could drop off the roof of your Austin Healey while you were eating a cucumber sandwich with the crusts cut 'orf and it wouldn't so much as dislodge a battery. They were often semi-covered in leather of varying colours, wrapped around the wooden frame with, the pièce de résistance, a beautifully simple rotating black disc on the base which allowed you to effortlessly swivel the radio in whichever direction you desired.

So no, the silver plastic is not in keeping with the timeless look of Roberts. However, this is 2009 and if you think back a few years, even Buck Rogers' best friend Twiki was almost entirely silver plastic and he seemed pretty robust!

Anyhoo, the plastic body is where my annoyance ends.

The controls are wonderfully smooth. The large blue display panel is clear. You want FM radio? You got it. You want DAB radio? You got it? You wanna pause radio? You got it. You wanna programme the radio to record your favourite music show that just happens to be on at 1am on a Monday morning? (oh yes it is) You got it? You want the radio to automatically record that same programme every week until you say otherwise? You got it. You want your radio to bluetooth your TV Freeview box, telling it to record a programme on BBC1 on a Saturday evening? Hmm, actually, it can't do that, but you get the idea!

While the lovely M was purchasing this belated pressie for me, my eye happened upon a rather spiffing little box of tricks that will convert your vinyl records (ask your parents) into mp3. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with my impending 6 weeks holiday and technically I'm supposed to be decorating but I'll just tell M I couldn't get the lid off the paint.

*tee hee*

She'll never find out!

"I do solemnly swear, to tell the tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth".

2009-07-10T20:59:00.005+01:00

Oh come on, be honest, you knew that at some point I'd make a corny reference to teeth, right? I'm married to a dentist for crying out loud, the title of this post was an accident waiting to happen!!!

Wouldn't you know it, tonight Joseph lost his first tooth!!!! If that ain't a milestone, I don't know what is! He was brushing teeth with M (I was attempting to tickle Annabel into submission that it was time for bed - she wouldn't give in, dammit), and he came bursting into the room, yelling that his tooth had "fallen out".

Now, call me Mr Suspicious, but I know that M has been twisting, pushing and pulling on that tooth for almost a week now. "The new tooth is trying to come in", she's been saying, like we'd all know better!!!!

Anyways, the bloody gap said it all - it was out; a single trickle of blood down his chin confirmed it's removal and immediately he began questioning the going rate for teeth. Woe betide the tooth fairy if she happens to forget about our house tonight!!

Actually, make that, woe betide me if the tooth fairy doesn't stop by tonight!

Naturally, Missy flew into a jealous rage because Joseph had lost a tooth and she hadn't. M tried to placate her by giving her a "fun" disclosing tablet (I know, I know), which turns your mouth the same colour as eating half a dozen Blackjack chews (remember them?). This worked for about 45 seconds before she decided she "hated" having a black tongue and collapsed on the floor in a tired rage.

Ho, ho, ho, dear me, it's a laugh isn't it??

Ooh, nearly forgot, Joseph woke me last night to tell me his leg was hurting and to be fair to him, his growing pains do seem very genuine, and so, by the time I'd turned on the lights to rifle through the medicine cabinet, I was nice and awake before administering some pain relief before falling back into bed.

M kindly brought a cartoon home from one of today's newspapers which I have reproduced here sans permission (although I have asked), so I may have to remove it.

For now, however, I think it sums up parenthood rather nicely.

"Roll up, roll up ..."

2009-07-04T20:39:00.009+01:00

What could possibly go wrong when the day starts as perfectly as today did?

Nothing, that's what!

So there was a teensy smattering of rain at midday, who cared? It was an absolute belter for the rest of the day. So warm was it, in fact, that I was forced to ask to borrow a hat from someone I would rather not have borrowed a hat (or anything else) from.

The irony of it being a hat that I have ridiculed this individual for wearing was not lost on me!

Step right up ladies, gentlemen and children, get your picture taken on a real police vee-hicle for just £1.50 (all donated to the school, natch). I couldn't resist getting my own piccy taken within approximately 3 minutes of their arrival. As Ali G would say, "dem bikes woz well wikkid, y' nah't I mean?" *finger lick*

When Joseph came over with his raffle prize, I could've sworn I saw M's eyes roll completely up and over in her head. She looked a little giddy for about an hour afterwards but she rallied herself beautifully.

(I don't think anybody noticed love!!)

And they're off .....

2009-07-02T19:57:00.003+01:00

I wrote (here) about the freedom a bicycle gives you, a freedom which seems far greater when you are very young. Of course, it might have more to do with the fact that I don't cycle as often as I used to, but who's counting?

Anyway, Joseph loves his new bike and we went for a ride together on the local common which, as you can see in the pic', has a neat dirt track with a steep slope to get you started. We both negotiated this 'hazard' without problem but Joseph did a very impressive (but completely accidental) front wheel skid where I was standing to land flat on his front.

He stood up and looked down at himself before smiling up at me, proudly displaying dirt and mud from his chest to his knees.

That's m'boy!

"We got a hot one for ya!"

2009-06-29T23:13:00.011+01:00

Dare we believe that this will be the year our summer will last through until September?

(click to enlarge)

Dare we?

Dag-nab it!

2009-06-29T00:15:00.005+01:00

Ho hum, another year, another chance to imitate Bill Oddie, not by choice I hasten to add!

Last year I found myself precariously balancing our ladder at the top of the tree at the bottom of the garden, whilst simultaneously clutching a baby wood pigeon who had been stupid/brave enough to attempt to 'fly the nest' before actually being ready to do so.

Yes yes, I know, "don't touch it, don't do this or that, leave it alone, it's mother will return" blah blah blah! If we didn't have such spiteful foxes where we live I would do exactly that.

But we do.

So I can't.

If you read here, you will see why I feel such a sense of duty towards our feathered friends. It's so tedious though! Every year, guaranteed, one of the little beggars will have gone for glory in a vain attempt at impressing it's obviously difficult to please parents.

Anyways, the little chap pictured below was this years contender for annoying little tit (note the hopelessly misplaced sense of superiority on his part), was this little fellow. I have to hand it to him mind, at no point did he look remotely bothered that two squealing children and a taller, uglier, human bean were all bearing down on him.

We put down a bottle cap of water, some bird seed from our feeder and some bread crusts. No sooner had we retreated, then one of the parents appeared, had a drink, nicked some seed and then flew off, ignorant to the chirruping of the chick.

They did return, albeit briefly, but to feed their offspring with something that was obviously tastier than our earlier offerings and we watched in delight as he ate happily.

As light faded, we locked our doors and left him to his fate.

We were rewarded in the morning with the sight of Master Blue Tit hopping around the garden, while we sat eating our breakfast and I have to admit to being very relieved to see him.

We saw nothing of him the next day and assumed that his strength was up and his featheres had grown enough to enable him to 'take to the wing'.

Everything was going to be just fine.

Until this evening, when Joseph stooped down to pick up the shuttlecock for our badminton game and came face to face with the ever so dead remnants of Mr Birdie, feet up the air and a relaxed look on his little vis. He looked peaceful enough, almost perfect in fact. If it weren't for the fact that creepy crawlies had had a nibble on his back, no-one would've been any the wiser.

And so, one brief burial ceremony later, this year's contender for 'Bravery in the face of Impossibility' was laid to rest in our garden.

Here's to next year!!!

"He's out of our lives ..."

2009-06-25T23:49:00.009+01:00

Moon landing.

JFK assassination.

Death of Princess Diana.

9/11.

Everyone remembers where they were or what they were doing when the above events took place.

And now the death of Michael Jackson?

I, like everyone else, find a certain grim fascination in the demise of someone truly in the public eye and they don't come much more public than Michael Jackson. I'm still not quite sure how a (suspected) child abuser managed to retain his fan base the way he did, anymore than I know how I continued to think he was brilliant, all things considered.

When I think of Michael Jackson, I think of my little brother desperately wanting a red and black leather jacket just like the one Mr Jackson wore in Thriller. It was hanging on a stall in the dubiously named Black Man's Market in Lewisham, South East London circa 1981. Back then, £100 was a whole heap of cash, but his (genuine) tears rolling his cheeks saw to him getting the jacket. To be fair, he never took the damn thing off for about 2 years so it was well worth it, not to mention him roping me in to learning the zombie Thriller dance. (I never could do it quite as good as him!!)

To the fans out there?

You have my sincere pity.

To the critics?

Dig out your vinyl LP's. They'll be worth a few bob now, I reckon!

"A ditty of summer's gone; in the afternoon"

2009-06-23T21:13:00.007+01:00

There are many things that make the hairs on my arms or the back of my neck stand up; in a good way I hasten to add (I've moved on from my previous post about horror books).

Watching my children performing in their school plays, for example, or listening to them read a difficult word for the first time.

A sad film can catch me off guard.

For some reason, seeing incredibly distant aeroplanes flying way, way up high, the one's with no inention of landing on UK soil and most certainly haven't taken off from UK soil either. You know the one's where you can barely see the plane itself but the vapour trail gives it away? (4 trails, it's a Jumbo, 2 trails, who knows or cares what it is, it ain't stopping!!)

I can feel choked when one of the school kids with whom I work sudddenly seems to turn a corner and grasps whatever it is that I've spent the past half hour trying to get him or her to grasp, it's written in their face that they've got it!!

They are all poignant moments.

They are brief but powerful.

Most frequently however, it is music that sends shivers down my spine. No particular genre; could be a classical piece, could be a melody in a pop song or it can be a repetitive, thumping dance tune that makes me stop what I'm doing and reach for the volume control.

It's been nearly 9 months that I wrote about buying a piano (read here). Our busy lives got in the way but I am back on track, thanks in part to a piece of music I heard yesterday and I literally have not been able to get the tune out of my head.

It helps that the music was used against an amateur animator's (here he goes again with the alliteration) short film, which itself was incredibly moving, but for me, it's the fact that it is the beautiful sound of a perfectly played piano that has wedged it so clearly in my head, possibly permanently.

The composers name is Yann Tiersen (isn't the internet wonderful?), and if you are familiar with the beautiful film Amélie, you may recognise the music from that.

The music is entitled "Comptine d'un autre été: l'après midi" and in the animation, an old man shares his life story with his grandson.

If you watch the whole thing without getting a lump in your throat, well .... you're made of stone.

Click HERE to watch and make sure you watch it Full Screen.

I will post Joseph's reaction to the film when you have had time to let the music sink in.

Feliz dia de los padres

2009-06-21T18:25:00.009+01:00

Some people celebrate today because it is the Summer solstice. Others because it is usually the Sunday upon which falls the British Grand Prix. There are those who are afforded a bit of a lie in due to the fact that it is Father's Day.

Personally, I'm glad because of a little bit of all three.

A thoughtfully written note from my son.

The day is always gonna be a good one when you have a free range bacon and ditto eggs, fried tomato with HP sauce sandwich on crusty bread to kick it off with.

Interestingly coloured ladybird/bug as caught and studied by daughter.

Helicopters coming in to land at heliport, several hundred metres from our choice of riverside restaurant.

Handmade card by children and a novelty mug which plays a (slightly irritiating) tune, everytime I pick it up.

Hmmm .....

I was more than comfortable in one of my new shirts courtesy of the ever thoughtful M and I'm fairly sure my own Dad appreciated his wine and chocolate.

Happy Father's Day to all!

Langoliers and Needful Things

2009-06-20T19:43:00.006+01:00

I am pretty delighted that my children seem to love books as much as I did and indeed, do. At bedtime, M and I take it in turns to swap our reading time between Joseph and Annabel and when we've finished, the two of them 'read' to themselves for 10 minutes or so, until they want to sleep.

Of course, Annabel is only looking at the pictures but she is doing very well, recognising lots of individual and even pairs of letters.

I appreciate that you can't dictate what your children read but I am going to do my best to steer them away from horror stories. Not entirely perhaps, but I will try to make sure it isn't all they read as I did while growing up; Stephen King, James Herbert and an absolutely terrifying novel called The Watcher by Charles Maclean, which frightened the living daylights out of me!!

I mean, there's so much more out there!!

Way to go kids; you're doing brilliantly!

"Hakuna Matata"

2009-06-19T20:08:00.005+01:00

I remember the second time we went to Lebanon; it was 2003 and Joseph was just about to celebrate his first birthday. He had reacted badly to something and his eyes were incredibly red and sore, not to mention running a 40 degree temperature (hey, the digital ear thermometer never lies).

Where better to be with a high fever than baking hot Lebanon as Summer held on on for all she was worth?

Anyways, I had been at my new job at Maida Vale studios for around 6 months and was enjoying my new surroundings very much. However, a cousin of M's (who we stayed with in Beirut), announced that the BBC had recently acquired premises just outside the Lebanese capital.

My mind immediately went into overdrive with visions of trading in the rat race that I knew for a rat race that I didn't know in a different country and culture! I stupidly started babbling my plans out loud and M and her cousin gave a sympathetic nod.

Or so I thought.

Heh heh .... yeah yeah, laugh away.

Chumps!

Those Wally's At Talk Talk

2009-06-17T20:53:00.004+01:00

Or TWATT's for short.

"Ooh, yes, sorry Mr Dad On A Bike, we appreciate you're lost without your broadband connection but rest assured, we're doing all we can do rectify the problem. Let me just double check, you're in Edmonton aren't you?"

"No".

"Right, oh no, that's right, London, of course, well, thanks for your patience. If you're not back up and running this time tomorrow, call us back and let us know".

"Yes. I'll do that".

No broadband = no posting so apologies all.

Anyways, I haven't got a picture of me ranting down the telephone. Nor have I got a computer-ish picture of my keyboard or similar so, not wanting to form an entire post around a complaint (why not, wouldn't be the first time???), I shall leave you with a piccy of some rather fabulous 'tiramisu truffles' which I knocked up for a couple of work colleagues who were celebrating birthdays around the same time recently.

I say knocked up, the damn things took me three evenings of 4 hours each approx' but, according to the recipients, they were delicious and very gratefully received.

(Who am I kidding, like I didn't help myself to several when finished!!)

Having said that, being as annoyingly sensitive to caffeine as I am nowadays, I was wandering around with a slightly silly grin for days afterwards.

If you're remotely interested in the recipe for these beautiful choc's with a kick like a mule, you have but to ask.

You'll be needing a bit of spare time though!

Tatty-filarious!

2009-06-13T20:23:00.007+01:00

Ho ho, how droll.

Barely a week ago, if you'd asked me if I'd "made that bread myself?", I'd have sniggered into whatever it was that I happened to be drinking at the time and scoffed back atcha, "no, of course not, how could you think such a thing?" *titter*

But now?

No sooner does someone say, "hey, the sun's out, let's have a barbecue this afternoon", do I dash indoors to grab my scales and strong bread flour and knock up a quick loaf for the eating of!

Hmmm, a glass of rosé or a nice cold beer?

Decisions, decisions .......

Big Up my main man Michael Morpurgo, aaaiiIIEEEE!

2009-06-12T23:00:00.005+01:00

You see what I did there?

The ever so un-subtle alliteration in my post title?

Dammit Blackadder, if I didn't see just about one of the most moving pieces of theatre this afternoon. As with all good theatre, the stage sets were simple, the story addictive, the characters convincing.

Plus, if you'd told me that I would be entranced by a production that had life size models of horses being carried around by three different people, their legs visible out of the bottom of the horse à la pantomine season, BUT that I would find it convincing ............

Well, I'd have thought you mad.

However, it must be said that I had to keep reminding myself that the horses weren't real, that their whinnying and startled snorts were coming from the actors controlling them. Those inside the frames as well as the actor controlling the head, neck and ears must have spent a great deal of time with real horses.

It's astonishing.

Go and see it and tell me if I'm wrong.

(I'm not wrong!)

Café con leche

2009-06-10T22:07:00.004+01:00

Not being a connoisseur in the coffee department, I'm not entirely sure if I am talking nonsense here but shouldn't a coffee be hot?

I don't mean warm either, I mean ..... hot?

It was tasty and all, just a bit lukewarm.

Maybe I should ask Mr Bellaphon.

He'll have the answer!

Another day, another recipe

2009-06-06T22:41:00.011+01:00

I think the children enjoyed today not only because they were doing something different but because they were doing something messy at my request!!

I am normally moaning on at them to be careful, not to spill this, not to drop that, so today's dough making session was very welcome.

The children were pretty much exculsively responsible for sifting the flour, adding the yeast and kneading the dough beautifully, which allowed us all to have not only several tasty ham, mushroom and mozzarella pizza's for lunch ....

but also a stunning small loaf of bread which we ate with butter and blackcurrant jam.

Our kitchen has never smelt so good!!