Chocolate Sandwich

I'm sure that one day I'll look back and laugh...

2011-11-28T22:05:00.001Z

‘I’ll try and get up now.’

‘OK’

The nurse proffered her shoulder as support.

‘Hey, it’s handy me being this teeny isn’t it.’

I didn’t answer that and made my way back on to the undersized stretcher/trolley.

The doctor reappeared.

‘He just got up on his own,’ explained the nurse and disappeared.

The doctor told me to stay put until I felt truly able to walk and then he left. I stayed put on the undersized stretcher/trolley for another hour or so. I then felt as though I had rallied. There was no sign of anyone coming back to monitor me, so I thought I’d get dressed and head for the taxi rank.

I slowly stood and peeked out into the corridor. I could see the reception desk staff and could hear them chatting about the expense of the extras in the new Mini Cooper. My faculties seemed to be in order. My nurse looked across.

‘Just thought I’d stand up and get ready,’ I said.

‘Right you are.’ She smiled her kindly smile and continued her conversation, which had moved on to woefully inadequate boot size.

When I came to on the corridor floor, what can only be described as a crowd had gathered around me. Many faces peered down at me - some with kindly smiles (staff), others without (passing patients).

You show me yours.....

2011-11-27T21:35:00.000Z

So, hospitals continue to host some of the most embarrassing incidents in my life. There's nothing like a bang on the head to aid reminiscence.

When I was nineteen years old a lump appeared at the very base of my spine. It was the result of an ingrowing hair – a common masculine complaint – and had to be excised. A small operation was necessary. I attended my appointment and did exactly as I was told. The young nurse seemed personable - she put me at me ease about the minor nature of the procedure and the swift recovery I could expect. I had read the guidance leaflet and knew that pre-operative shaving was necessary.

‘I will, of course, have to shave your…er…bottom area. So, if you could just get yourself ready on the bed. I’ll get the shaving stuff.’

I was painfully shy as a youth. I was, therefore, troubled in the extreme by the idea of lying naked on a hospital bed behind a thin curtain in a busy ward. I had seen plenty of hospital-based comedy in my time. I knew that mistakes were easily made in such hectic environments. Hospital staff could easily fling back the wrong curtain. I imagined a consultant at the head of a cohort of eager medical students with pencils poised over notebooks. The group would be moving at speed and the consultant would be cavalier in his approach to personal privacy, guessing at the location of an interesting case of elephantitis he had heard about. In his attempt to broaden the experience of his proteges he would inadvertently show them the pale backside of a shy young man from Fallowfield.

My fears were unfounded or, at least, inaccurate. The curtain was pulled back by the correct nurse. She entered and placed the shaving paraphernalia on the bedside table, turning swiftly to restore the curtain and preserve my dignity. I looked back. A large can of shaving foam, a bowl of water, a towel and a disposable razor sat on a small tray. I was slightly perturbed by the low quality razor and the prospect of dabbing shaving wounds with a styptic pencil. I was more perturbed by the nurse’s hesitation:

‘Right….er…I think I’ve got everything we need. Razor, foam, water, towel. Yes….everything we need.’

By this point I was quite relaxed. But then I have always found the nervousness of others quite tranquilising. How, I thought to myself, could this situation become any more embarrassing? Once embarrassment has been achieved to this level, surely it can only plateau and result in the getting on with the task in hand. I looked around at the nurse. The cheap razor trembled in her hand. Her embarrassment had not peaked, it was refusing to plateau and seemed instead to be turning into terror:

‘I, I can’t do this,’ she whimpered. ’I’m sorry.’

She fled. Moments later a burly male nurse appeared and held the razor with a steady hand. As he wordlessly prepared me for surgery, I could hear a group of chattering medical students trooping past. They didn’t trouble my curtain.

'it might make you a little bit woozy....'

2011-11-26T18:48:00.000Z

The only option left for paramedics in a small vehicle who can’t right an upturned house husband is to call an ambulance - so an ambulance was called.

‘It’s not an emergency one’, explained Clive. ‘It’ll probably take about an hour. They’ll not keep you in though. My guess is Diazepam and codeine and then back home. You’ll not be dancing, but you’ll be mobile’

Clive was happy with the fact that the ambulance was in no hurry and squeezed in a few more telly questions to Maude, before surprising her with a fan-like hug and kiss as he made his exit. Robert looked vaguely embarrassed and waved awkwardly.

Maude filled one of the children’s backpacks with my pyjama bottoms and a toothbrush, ‘just in case’.

My battered back felt every bump in the road, as I took in the multitude of signs on the interior of the ambulance. Most of them could be boiled down to the simple message: ‘please don’t hit the ambulance staff, they are trying to help you’.

I was, as ever, too long for the stretcher. My feet protruded over the end and it was my feet that opened the plastic trimmed doors of the Accident & Emergency department. The staff nurse’s greeting ‘We’ve got a tall one here’ set the tone for the rest of this healthcare experience.

After the inevitable wait of an hour, a doctor appeared. His eyes were bloodshot, but he seemed thorough and concerned enough. After much probing and examination, he fulfilled Clive’s prediction:

‘Diazepam. It’s a muscle relaxant – it might make you a little bit woozy. And something for the pain. You should then be able to go straight home, but not driving yourself.’

I noticed that he was eyeing my feet as they extended beyond the end of the stretcher. I was wearing rather fetching socks, but later realised that he was making a prescribing decision based on a bloodshot visual assessment of my body size.

‘I think you’re the tallest person I’ve ever met’, observed the nurse, as she squeezed past my feet and into the cubicle.

She set a small paper cup of medication beside me, along with a paper cup with just insufficient water to properly swallow all of the tablets.

I took the medication and waited. An hour or so passed. It felt safe to try and get to my feet. The pain had subsided. It felt good to be able to slowly straighten up. I tried to focus on the Angel of the North – a motif on hospital curtains in the Gateshead area. I couldn’t, I passed out.

I came to on the floor of the cubicle. I understood that I had fainted, but that my collapse had gone unheard. I stretched painfully to reach a cardboard vomit catcher from a trolley and hit the call button.

The dispensing nurse arrived and seemed unmoved. She folded a blanket and put it under my head, which was lolling on my outstretched arm.

‘Just lie there until you feel a bit better, pet.’

I lay there and squinted up. The nurse looked down and smiled a kindly smile, in much the same way that Clive and Robert had smiled kindly smiles.

Laid Low

2011-11-26T15:11:00.001Z

I had been struggling under the sympathetic gazes of Clive and Robert, the paramedics, for a good fifteen minutes. Maude winced, smiled, looked away, smiled, looked at her watch.

What I was trying to do was quite simple. I was trying to stand up. My lumbago had begun to stir at the weekend:

Toddler into bath, toddler out of bath. Attention-seeking four year old up the steep stairs to bed. Bored, screaming four year old lifted off bicycle not long after start of bike ride. Deceptively heavy child’s bike carried by Daddy for rest of bike ride route etc…

My back was an accident waiting to happen. As I failed to launch from the living room carpet, I had to admit to that the accident had, indeed, happened.

Clive was the senior paramedic or ‘nurse practitioner’, as he clarified. He had recognised Maude on his arrival at the house.

‘Well I know who you are!’

Maude’s recent reality TV debut had caused something of a stir in the area and Clive was clearly an aficionado of the show. He sat and asked me the regulation questions for his forms: age, details of medical history, how I came to be helplessly prone on my own living room floor. He sped through them while his assistant checked my blood pressure and took a blood sample. Clive’s eyes moved frequently from me to Maude. He could hold out no longer:

‘But what about that hairdresser?! How did you not just throw him out of your house?’

Maude happily filled Clive in on some of the backstage secrets of the show and joked about the menu choices of her fellow contestants. Clive reminded her of some her funniest remarks and commented on how much Maude reminded him of his favourite sister.

I coughed weakly from the floor. It was then that Clive and Robert tried to manoeuvre me from beetle stranded on back to fully functioning stay at home Dad.

‘Well, we could give you a painkilling injection, but that’ll not necessarily get you off the floor. Go on, have another go.’

As I managed to get onto my hands and knees, I could feel a bead of sweat dripping off the end of my nose and extreme pain radiating from a source somewhere around a twenty six year old operation scar. I steeled myself for one last attempt on ‘upright’. As I crumpled back to the floor, I could hear a ringtone of unfamiliar young person’s music coming from Robert’s mobile phone. He apologised as he rifled through his bag. I could also hear Clive.

‘You’ve got a lovely house, by the way. Looked much bigger on the telly though.’

Rude Awakening

2011-11-13T15:17:00.000Z

I could sense Maude’s presence beside me, before I officially woke up. I could feel that she was regarding me closely. Not fair, I thought, to survey ones partner first thing in the morning when they are feigning sleep to avoid getting up with the kids because it can’t possibly be their turn to do so again. I was conscious that I looked weary – the strain of childcare was undoubtedly showing.

I chanced one open eye and, indeed, there she was:

‘You look about a hundred!’ she laughed.

‘Good morning to you’ seemed the only dignified response. ‘I’ll have a rejuvenating shower and hope to pass for a sprightly octogenarian.’

As Maude gets older, she gets better in so many ways.

She also gets more like her father.

(Crawford is well into his seventies and most of his news on the telephone relates to death or serious illness. Augusta too, although significantly younger and more active than Crawford, can be similarly morbid.)

Maude’s initial amusement at my cadaverous pallour soon turned, as ever, to talk of tests at the doctors and the inconvenience that would be caused by my early death.

‘It’s good that you’re not driving so far any more, but you really need to look after yourself. Have you been taking those supplements I got for you? They were very expensive…... Do I have any clean pants?’

Stay at Home, Dad

2011-10-18T18:36:00.002+01:00

‘You didn’t come back this week!’ said my neighbour, Vanessa, as we queued for coffee in the church hall.

I didn’t feel the need to tell her that my confidence had been knocked a little by the frosty reception I received on my first visit to ‘Rhymetime’. Magnus the librarian was thoroughly welcoming and happily wrote a sticky name label for Jocasta to wear.

Some of the mothers, however, seemed perturbed by the presence of a stay at home Dad. They all seemed to know each other and were clearly such regular attenders that Magnus had pre-prepared badges for their children.

Three of the little girls present were all called Sophia. One mother pointed out that her child’s name was ‘Sofia with an ‘f’'.

I threw myself into proceedings, nonetheless, and sang the rhymes with gusto.

It was halfway through ‘Incey Wincey Spider’ that I thought I caught some non-verbal communication occurring between two of the mothers. Some kind of signal passed between them involving a nod towards me. Both women had younger babies – as well as their Sofia/Sophia’s. They began to unbutton their cheesecloth blouses and, each with a steely eye on me, started breast-feeding.

I was not put off by this nursing offensive. I carried on singing and making spider

hands. It was at this point that Magnus announced the banana break. His assistant

emerged with a platter of sliced fruit.

The nursing mothers whispered to their Sophia/Sofia’s that they should hurry and get some fruit as a reward for all their wonderful singing. I wasted no time whispering and shoved Jocasta in the general direction of the fruit.

‘Nana!’ cried my youngest. As she motored towards the platter, she inadvertently winged a Sophia/Sofia and sent her into a bean bag.

I heard at least one gasp from the Sophia/Sofia side of the room and smiled in the general direction of the mothers.

Mother one reciprocated with an incey wincey smile. Mother two looked past me and switched breasts.

'I'm away now....'

2011-09-30T16:30:00.000+01:00

I used to sell books. I sold new books in a city centre bookshop - where they made me wear a lanyard. At weekends I sold old books on a stall at Tynemouth Market. Like many regular public gatherings, Tynemouth Market had an 'eccentric'. His name was something like Cyril and he was somehere around seventy years old. Cyril was covered in badges - they were all over his frock coat, his flat cap and were glued to his walking stick.

Cyril would 'perform' his eccentricity for traders and customers: loudly telling spectacularly old jokes and singing music hall standards. He once saw me doing a crossword and informed the whole market:

'We've got one of them clever ones here!'

Tynemouth Market takes place in Tynemouth Station. Book and bric-a-brac business is punctuated by the arrival and departure of trains on the metro loop from Newcastle. Cyril would announce his own departure with some grandeur - waving his stick and shouting:

'I'm away now! I'm away!'

He was, in the main, ignored.

Cyril would tarry - even letting his train pass if necessary - until the loss of the 'life and soul' of the market was fittingly acknowledged.

'I'm away now! I'm away!'

Eventually a couple of people (possibly tourists) would wave back and that was usually enough for him.

Today was my last day at work. Morag was all smiles yesterday - looking forward to 'a face to face handover' of any oustanding tasks on my to do list.

'I'll be out all morning,' she said, 'see you at about 1.30.'

I have always wanted to walk away from a job at lunchtime and here was my chance.

It was just before noon. I left a note for Sadie and punched 'send' on a handover email to Morag. The faculty admin staff were busy speaking loud English at some newly-arrived Asian students. I squeezed into the lift with a grumpy porter and a trolley. At ground level I was swept into the youthful tide of students leaving the building and entering the quad. They massed towards the university refectory. I turned away for the car park - telling nobody in particular as I went...

'I'm away now! I'm away!'

'I'll be a bit like you, Dad, but with small children.’

2011-09-07T22:54:00.000+01:00

‘So when is it you retire?’

I was glad to hear that my father hadn’t lost his sense of humour in the face of blindness and general decrepitude.

‘It’s not retirement Dad, it’s redundancy. I’m hoping it won’t be forever. And anyway, I’ll be a 'stay at home dad'. I'll be a bit like you, Dad, but with small children.’

Up to now, I have Monday and Tuesday mornings covered at the local library – ‘storytime’ and ‘rhymetime’ respectively. ‘Gym Tots’ is restarting on Thursdays in October, apparently.

So that just leaves Wednesdays and Fridays to fill. Aurora is at school now and it’s to be hoped that Jocasta doesn’t grow out of epic midday naps before the spring.

To her credit, Maude has been trying to ease my transition from paid employment to playground fixture. She has identified another stay at home dad in the neighbourhood. She befriended him at the library and is now trying to engineer a meeting between us. His name features prominently on her clipboard to-do list and I hear that he is an unflappable natural at shepherding his two small children around our new local National Trust adventure playground..

I feel like a child being forced to play with children I don’t know.

‘I’d rather', I suggested, 'that we became acquainted in a more natural way, darling.’

Maude retrieved her clipboard. With a sigh, she scored out the name of the village's only other known stay at home dad.

‘What you mean is that you aren’t keen because he has long hair and his little boy is called Thor.’

'A Little Does...'

2011-08-17T23:33:00.003+01:00

We left my in-laws’ house in the brightest sunshine. The drums of the apprentice boys could be heard in the distance as they practised for some march or other.

Crawford had been enjoying a quiet cigarette and some sporting commentary on the radio in his jeep as we packed the car – winding down his window on occasion to offer packing tips and comment on our tyre pressure.

‘The natives are restless’ he observed, dramatically cupping his ear and wincing as he descended to the gravel.

‘Yes, we know’ replied Maude ‘that’s why we thought we’d take the children to the caravan for a few days.’

The girls love being at their grandparents’ house and their grandparents enjoy the contact, but older people also like to have their space back fairly promptly.

Crawford had begun to spend long stretches of time ensconced in his jeep. Augusta too had sought sanctuary – locking herself in the summer house. As we left she was even wearing her large headphones. This gave her the look of a 'Mr and Mrs' contestant waiting to be tested on just how well she knew her partner of 42 years.

Maude and I agreed that the time was right to take advantage of the offer of a loaned caravan on the pleasantly named ‘Juniper Hill’ site in Portstewart – just next to the field reserved for drive-in gospel sessions.

Shortly after we located the correct caravan and installed the children, the rain that was to last the entire duration of our stay began. Drizzle turned to heavy rain and it beat a steady rhythm on the roof of the caravan which insisted it was heard over the sound of children’s television.

‘Is that the drummer boys again, Daddy?’

‘No darling, unfortunately, it isn’t.’

People always need windows..

2011-07-11T15:42:00.008+01:00

My best man Miles called today - out of the blue. Always a tonic, he told me about his all expenses paid week in Mauritius with other members of a 'Platinum Club' of salesmen. This group is comprised of the most effective members of the sales team at Albion Windows and Miles almost gave himself a sickener of champagne and lunchtime mojitos.

The platinum reward had been for Miles plus one. He had nobly offered the opportunity to me.

Maude vetoed it:

‘You’re a lightweight – you’ll never keep up with him.’

I suspect Mrs Miles had that very quality in mind when she suggested my name. Miles took his brother-in-law instead – still finding a way to please Mrs Miles.

It now feels, however, like a missed networking opportunity. I might have osmotically absorbed some sales nous from the platinum chaps in readiness for my impending, and as yet undefined, new direction. I ventured to Miles that my years of experience helping to take art to the undercultured had made me virtually unemployable.

‘I was in the same boat son. Just sell windows! Anyone could do it. Not everyone can do it to ‘platinum’ standard, obviously. But people are staying put in their houses and - at some point - people always need windows.’

I dictated my email address to Miles. He promised to email something guaranteed to make me soil myself with mirth.

‘I’ll just bang it straight into my i-pad 2’ .

As susceptible as the next man to the seductive appeal of new technology, I asked a few questions about the 'spec' on his new machine. Over the course of several minutes he gave me the low-down on what the machine took only several seconds to ‘rip through’. I then made the mistake of asking when he bought his i-pad – forgetting his status as a prominent member of the Albion Platinum Club.

‘I didn’t buy it, bonny lad. I achieved it.’

Redundancy Roadshow

2011-07-01T21:16:00.001+01:00

Why does every event that travels have to be described as a ‘roadshow’?

Where is the ‘show’ element in a room full of people being told that they are being made redundant and then being told in great detail how they will be made redundant?

It’s more an ‘end-of-the-road’ show.

I thought that my last visit to our National Office was to be my last visit to our National Office, but a final invitation was made by Dave when we met a couple of weeks ago. He told me in his best sober tone that a ‘roadshow’ had been developed to support staff ‘at this depressing time’. I was reminded of Dave yesterday. During a drama project evaluation some extrovert Year 6 children showed me their best ‘serious faces’.

They should have asked me to programme the roadshow content. I would have taken my lead from ‘The Producers’ and produced a bona fide 'show' :

‘P45: The Musical’.

The big number would be a redundant rabble rouser to the tune of ‘YMCA’ with a chorus of ‘P-forty-five’ and a dance routine spelling that out in human form. It could sweep the nation - an 'Agadoo' for our times.

Project End

2011-05-25T23:07:00.006+01:00

I arranged a school visit today for Dave from Head Office. Morag came along too. It’s a likeable school with a likeable Headteacher and an exquisitely creative approach to teaching poor kids from a sprawling council estate on the fringes of a culturally barren city in the North East of England.

All boxes ticked.

Dave is a thoroughly decent, uncomplicated, chap. I’ve always admired his straightforwardness: family car, wedding ring, sensible haircut, Blue Harbour wardrobe. Dave, to his credit, can be relied upon to tell the truth.

Morag had rewritten the agenda for the day – so that I could talk through the creative highlights of the current programme with Dave over lunch at The National Clay Pipe Centre. She would then get strategic with Dave in camera elsewhere.

Thankfully, Dave’s straightforwardness won out and he got strategic over lunch.

‘The consultation process will begin in June and we are planning to issue redundancy notices in July.’

I had been preparing for this moment and remained unfazed. Morag went very red in the face.

I suspect that she would have preferred to have the power of the redundancy knowledge in her back pocket as leverage for several weeks. She could then maintain her approach of going out to meetings all day every day, after an early morning ‘high importance’ email to me overhauling my priorities and To-do list with an urgency that wouldn’t be out of place in a war situation.

In fact, she observed last week that what I needed was a war map with miniature schools and artists in place of tanks and warships. This was in order to plan and monitor our work. I countered that she would derive much more enjoyment from a war map. I stopped short of suggesting that it should be housed in a bunker – a considerable distance from the office.

The Battle of Message Drift

2011-05-24T23:06:00.002+01:00

I was at the final Programme Meeting for the organisation the other day. It was, as ever, at Lovely Space in St Pancras. There wasn’t much enthusiasm on show at breakfast – most of those present knew they were earmarked for redundancy.

The theme of the day was how to best capture the evidence of all the good we have done in order to leave a legacy which makes the case that the good work continues in some new guise in some new, more sympathetic landscape at some point in the future. It is basically the premise of Christian faith and we were being asked to pray, but I was looking at the faces of unbelievers at the breakfast table.

We were asked to moderate some project evaluations and hold up small placards reading either ‘Met’ or ‘Not Met’. I was feeling more Craig Revel-Horwood than Len Goodman and waved ‘Not Met’. We had to handwrite our own ‘Not Met’ signs – as there were none available on the table top. I felt like such a maverick.

We were presented with a changed agenda for the day. The National Director had re-jigged his schedule in order to join us in the afternoon – to avert, I suspected, what I had heard described recently as ‘message drift’. He was planning to float around the tables during the ‘reflection’ session. I could imagine his presence clearly – glasses perched on head, eyes closed for deep reflection before smiled words of encouragement, agreement and marvel at the truly original expressions of programme reflection from toadies hopeful of a glowing reference to accompany their imminent P45. I could imagine it all so clearly I didn’t really see the need to wait for it.

I claimed childcare and wandered around the shops for a couple of hours. I bought a very fetching shirt in MUJI. They appeared to be exclusively playing the Smiths, so I tarried a little – enjoying my brief spell off-radar. The boy on the checkout opined that The Smiths touched people for nostalgic reasons. For true influence, he rated The Fall. He told me that the manager didn’t let him play The Fall. I was unsurprised, but commiserated nonetheless.

Lovely

2011-04-29T13:56:00.002+01:00

‘One of the ornamental trees fell on the front pews. Prince Philip is quite badly scratched and he’s blaming members of the Tongan entourage for bringing about the accident by shimmying up the tree for a better view. I did catch a glimpse of the queen’s knickers in the pell mell, but looked away like the good subject I am.’

Maude had taken Aurora up to the loo. The excitement of the vows and the struggle to get the ring on had all been too much for both of them: a toilet break was needed. I had been asked to watch Jocasta and provide commentary, but nothing of note was actually happening.

‘Oh, and Harry has just emerged from behind an arras. His hair is even more tousled than it was. Pretty sure he just winked at one of the security men. The cameraman has gone in close now and Huw Edwards is trying not to mention the vivid smear of lipstick on the lad’s cheek. Harry's examining his outfit for a working pocket. He has a small piece of paper in his hand – possibly a phone number.... ’

I could hear a tap running.

‘Wash wash wash dear and don’t, whatever you do, listen to Daddy.’

Neophobes United

2011-04-15T21:38:00.003+01:00

This morning I awoke and went downstairs to check for signs of rodent activity. All seemed in order, so I lifted a roasting tin from the drainer to put it away. A mouse fell out of it, landed on my foot and then shot under the nearby washing machine. I pulled the washing machine out to find its bed.

The mouse was clearly quite settled and had been for some time by the looks of it. It was then that I remembered a key part of the Pest Control man’s monologue:

‘They’re neophobes, you know. Hate anything new, any change. It drives them crazy if you block up any holes or move anything. Sometimes just doing that is enough to make them go’

I decided to radically upset chez mouse in the hope that he would feel so discombobulated he would flounce off.

A small part of me (a part of which I am not proud) hoped the mouse would simply cross the road and take up residence at Eric’s. Eric would be unlikely to hear any rodent noise above the sound of his television and his grumbling. Eric would also be unlikely to put any energy into getting rid of the mouse if he did detect it – as this would leave less energy to emerge from his house like a demented weather clock character every time one of his neighbours misparked.

I thought about breaking up the bed, but then decided I could do something far more disturbing. I added some members of Aurora’s Sylvanian Family to the scene:

I mentioned the rodent neophobe theory in the office. Morag admitted to classic neophobic traits – having joined and quit Facebook within the space of a single afternoon.

Morag then left the office to attend the leaving drinks for Clive at The National Clay Pipe Centre. I seized my chance and:

mixed up all the tops on her flipchart markers

changed the order of her desk drawers

adjusted the height of her chair

Worth a try.

Breached

2011-04-12T21:28:00.004+01:00

The Pest Control man had a comprehensive knowledge of the behaviour of rodents and a strong desire to share it.

‘It’ll know your routine inside out. It’ll know when you’ve been to the supermarket. It’ll know when you go to bed.’

He continued in the same vein and built a picture of rodents as miniature Stasi operatives. He also seemed pleased that our home had been penetrated by one of the little beasts. He scouted around the building, pointing out glaring gaps in our defences.

‘That’ll be it, there,’ he said with not a little triumph, as he pointed at the gap under our garage door.

‘They could walk right through that gap man – not even have to duck.’

He had an apprentice with him – an enthralled young note-taker. The pair crossed the road. I stood in the bay window and watched as the senior of the two pointed over the hedge at the river and guffawed. He then traced the route he imagined our visitor took straight up the drive and straight through the irresistible large gap under the garage door.

Ben, the two of us need look no more....

2011-04-11T21:18:00.003+01:00

Aurora is often in the habit of pinching an apple from the fruit bowl and losing interest halfway through eating it. She is not, though, in the habit of hiding half eaten apples in a neatly ordered cache behind the fridge.

I got up on Sunday morning, looking forward to sharing a banana with Jocasta. I went to the kitchen fruit bowl and noticed the absence of the banana that I clearly remembered seeing there the night before.

Maude and I had been out for dinner with Harriet and Morten. I drove, so Maude drank. As Maude dozed loudly on the sofa at around midnight, I took the opportunity to have a look at the prize crossword. The paper rustled a little, Maude breathed heavily and something made a scratching noise in the kitchen. I investigated, but saw nothing and presumed that our elderly fridge had developed a new rumble.

I thought no more of it until the following morning. It was then that I saw lack of banana in the fruit bowl and presence of protruding banana next to fridge. This banana had been half-consumed by a small animal other than one of my daughters.

At first we thought that the visitor must be nothing short of a rat to be able to move items of fruit. Maude and I agreed to speak in code to avoid any Aurora panic. We dubbed the visitor ‘Ben’ – a reference to Michael Jackson’s lovely ballad.

Hello Dolly

2011-03-09T21:58:00.006Z

My mother is elderly and, obviously, has elderly friends. These friends are well-meaning and have a lot of time on their hands. Mother mentioned to one of her friends that Maude and I had recently been blessed with another daughter. Mother’s friend was delighted and insisted that she would make a doll. Mother is polite and welcomed the idea.

When the large soft padded envelope arrived, the postman opened our porch door and left it in on the hallstand as he usually does. We don’t mind this postman having this access – he can certainly be trusted more than the last one. Aurora is like her mother and loves presents – even when they are not actually intended for her. At Aurora’s insistence I opened the parcel addressed to her sister. Aurora’s flight was incredibly swift. My daughter’s dashes through the drawing room usually come unstuck by her clumsiness – a stubbed toe or a trip halfway, followed by floods of tears. On this occasion I was amazed by her faultless athleticism – as she vaulted the arm of the sofa and forward rolled into her playtent before the whole doll had even appeared from the jiffy bag. Her manoeuvre was worthy of a 70’s cop show and only lacked a cry midway of ‘cover me!’

‘It’s scary Daddy! Give it back to postman!.’

Jocasta echoed Aurora’s verdict by crying instantly and noisily soiling her nappy when presented with the well-meant doll.

Mother called to check that we had received the parcel.

She was diplomatic.

‘I don’t know how she does it,‘ she observed of her friend.

I was less charitable.

‘I don’t know WHY she does it’.

‘Daddy. Am I a Geordie?’

2010-12-01T12:15:00.007Z

Our house is at the foot of a hill. Last week we were snowed in for 6 days. I say ‘we’. I was snowed in with 2 small children for 4 of them. Maude soldiered up the hill and went to teach the few damp stragglers who turned up to learn from her.

Each time the snow began afresh Aurora stood at the window and exclaimed ‘It’s Christmas Daddy!’

I found it hard to share her enthusiasm.

On the morning of Day 3 I heard on the news that the police had issued a warning to revellers in Newcastle. The warning went something like: ‘no matter how tough you are, how much money you’ve spent on your new weekend outfit and how much warming alcohol you plan to drink, wear some clothes or you may well die in the sub-zero temperatures.’

‘Those Geordies’ I sighed. As I encouraged Aurora to eat her croissant, I could see that she was preoccupied.

‘Daddy. Am I a Geordie?’

‘No, no, no dear. The Geordies aren’t as tall as we are.’

‘OK. They say ‘I done’ and ‘I seen’ too. Don’t they?’

‘That’s right poppet.’

Aurora went about her business of drawing more brightly coloured images of pigs with chicken pox with her ‘smooth pens’ (felt tips). Jocasta giggled and did lengths of the kitchen on her walker.

As the snow began to fall again I took to the window seat and wondered how long we would be stuck in this situation. Just how long would I be kept away from the glamour of Sunderland?

I made the mistake of picking up my Blackberry and opening another ‘URGENT – ACTION REQUIRED’ email from Morag.

I pressed ‘delete’.

I then noticed a figure on Desmond’s drive next door. Maude had mentioned that Desmond’s son Bobby had acquired a girlfriend, but this was the first time I had seen her. Against explicit police advice, Bobby’s friend was dressed in a light dressing gown over pyjamas and fluffy slippers. Celia clearly had quite a strict rule about smoking in the house, but the young woman was not to be deterred. She dragged on her cigarette with relish and used her hand to shield the flame. Her hair and shoulders carried a significant dusting of snow – I suspected that she was smoking her second or third cigarette.

I felt a small presence at my elbow.

‘That’s a Geordie isn’t it Daddy’

On Holiday By Mistake

2010-11-16T12:19:00.014Z

At the weekend just gone we were ‘on holiday by mistake.’

Various friends with young children were going to experience the ‘Winter Wonderland’ at Centerparcs in Cumbria. The children involved were all Aurora’s playmates, so we thought we would join in, primarily for her sake. The Centerparcs formula is impressively simple:

Charge a king’s ransom for tired and basic self-catering accommodation in a picturesque woodland setting.

Make setting remote from any ordinary shops and entertainment.

Provide shops and ‘entertainment’ with eye-wateringly high prices and hope that holiday spending money delusion works against the generation of too many complaints from customers.

The experience was a bit like joining a cult exclusively for vulnerable and tired people with small children: people stripped of the energy and/or the imagination to organise anything more original for themselves.

The swimming pool was enjoyable – especially for the children. Aurora played with her playmates and Jocasta squeeled with joy as Maude carried her and strode into the artificially generated eddies and ripples. Jungle drums signalled the onset of waves on the hour. A digital display flashed WAVE ON to increase the anticipation and Aurora clung to Daddy and yelped as each wave hit.

For me, the best part of the Centerparcs swimming pool experience was the opportunity to survey the woeful physical condition of the other dads. They were, in the main, podgy. It has to be said that their podginess helped them stay steadfast against the waves, but it also created unfortunate ripples and wobbles of flesh as they moved around the space age dome which covered the pool. The dome gave the whole scene a look of ‘Logan’s Run’ in reverse. Only the over 30 and out of shape were allowed to stay. The attractive and under 30 were terminated - unless they managed to crack the formidable boundary defences and reached the bright lights of Keswick.

New Shocks

2010-10-15T16:49:00.004+01:00

My mechanic, Paul, is economical with words. He is, after all, a busy man with skills.

Paul calls and doesn’t introduce himself, he just details the problem you currently have.

‘You need new shocks and bushes.’

This is what he told me a couple of months ago.

‘I know that Paul, but what about the car.’ Paul had sighed his usual sigh and continued ‘£135 plus VAT, do you want us to go ahead?’

I think I actually made Paul laugh, or at least smile, once, in 2006. He’s impervious to my wit, but a comical slip by a tall man on his oily forecourt seemed to hit the spot.

‘Daddy’s funny little car’ - as Aurora calls it - has been ailing again. The warning lights have been taking turns at coming on over the last few weeks. My morning turn of the ignition key had begun to feel a bit like pulling the handle on a one-armed bandit – with the daily prospect of a jackpot. The jackpot: all warning lights glaring and beeping, car kaput, no way to get to Sunderland, back in the house to help Aurora assemble Mr Potato Head in the most grotesque attitude possible.

I knew as soon as ‘Paul’ flashed on my phone screen again that I was in for a pithy assessment.

‘You’re not firing on all cylinders.’

I was unsurprised, almost relieved. I suppose I just needed someone to say it.

All Our Pasts

2010-09-28T15:17:00.009+01:00

Paroxysms of funding cut panic are currently sweeping through the well-designed offices of our cultural organisations. Our organisation has been changing its ways gradually: Hilton to Travelodge, annual 3 day family get together to all staff ebulletin and, in some desperate instances, freshly ground to instant coffee.

A meeting was convened at the plush head office to talk about the probable impact on the members of ‘the family’. I bumped into an old friend after parking the car and showed her some phone pictures of the children. This made me a full 5 minutes late for the meeting. They rang me as I was entering the building to ask where I was.

I shared the lift with a performance artist I know. We had worked together briefly before a misunderstanding created an insuperable schism. She had understood my work to be ‘voluntary’, I had understood it to be ‘paid.’ Mercifully we were only going up to the 2^nd floor – there was not enough time to revisit the misunderstanding or, more importantly, for her to devise some kind of site-specific ‘performance’.

The meeting was led by the Operations Director – Dave. He’s a no nonsense sort and invited me into the room with blokey cordiality. I was the only other male at the meeting, so this was understandable. He stood to talk us through the likely features of the wave of cuts (or the ‘tsunami’ as the National Director named it). Using a dry-wipe board, Dave created a ‘timeline’ for the tsunami, marking when and where it would touch land and who would could expect to be washed away. He then made use of a flipchart on which he attempted to do the maths. I think all in the room knew that the sums Dave was attempting were mathematical impossibilities and a minus figure would recur at the end of all of them. But we all indulged his optimism and listened carefully.

The National Office has always been immaculately furnished and equipped. I took this opportunity to look, for probably the last time, at some of the no expense spared touches: the designer cafetieres, the fetching baskets of speciality teas, the desktop fridge for the miniature bottles of Evian. I was looking forward to visiting the bathroom, with its basket of grooming toiletries and droll signage about the perils of switching off the lights before checking the cubicles for dozing colleagues.

I was drawn back to Dave’s presentation, but not quite as he would have wished. My eyes, and the eyes of many others in the room, were drawn to the gape in Dave’s shirt. Dave’s message was being undermined by the exposure of his particularly hirsute belly button. As he reached between wipe-board and flipchart, the belly button flexed and seemed to be mouthing his words. I scanned the room to see if any of my colleagues had also seen the belly button speak. They all maintained professional faces and focussed on the content. I too was focussed on the content, but began to suspect that the belly button really was doing the talking. It was plain, however, that neither mouth nor midriff could make the numbers add up.

Bunk Up

2010-08-09T16:53:00.003+01:00

I love camping accessories. I have a garage full of lightweight and well-designed outdoor versions of everything else in the house: a miniature table that folds away into a tiny pouch, a dinky kettle, even special matches that light in Scottish weather.

I don’t like camping.

Maude mentioned the possibility of a camping trip to The Lakes with the girls.

‘Imagine Aurora banging in a tent-peg with a miniature mallet. Her own little billycan of cassoulet. Jocasta giggling in the light of the campfire. It would be enough to melt the cold heart of any cynical, grumpy old anti-camper.’

Our trip to Spain was in the early summer. My wife was quite insistent that she couldn’t possibly endure the rest of the holiday without some excursions.

Maude’s face flashed on my Blackberry screen during a ‘catch up’ meeting with Morag yesterday. I excused myself from Morag’s monologue and answered in the corridor.

‘The silly woman won’t accept my card, so you’ll have to pay.’

Unbeknown to me our bridesmaid, Janice, had recommended a campsite near Ullswater.

‘Oh, perhaps I forgot to mention it. I’ve provisionally booked a campsite in The Lakes for you, me, the girls, Harriet and Morton, their kids, Seth and Bella and their two. The woman who answers the phone is obviously the farmer’s wife and can’t work the card machine. Could you call her and sort it out. The place is called something like Sunny Dell. You’ll have to Google it. You’re paying everyone’s deposit. Bye.’

After calling three campsites with names like, but not, ‘Sunny Dell’ I located the correct farmer’s wife and completed the booking.

Last night I took to my room (the garage) for the enjoyable part of the plan: the equipment check. I replaced batteries, put up the miniature table, counted the tent pegs, located the mallet, inserted a gas canister into our new camping stove and lit it with my special matches, made a cup of tea, sat on camping chair and drank tea, inflated an inflatable bed, lay on it for a few minutes, heard Maude calling, put down miniature table, deflated bed, turned off garage light, re-entered kitchen.

The Girl with the Courgette Tattoo

2010-08-08T13:05:00.002+01:00

Maude has decided that having children need not signal the death of our social life.

After reading one of her lifestyle magazines, my wife exclaimed:

‘Cocktails! In the house. No babysitter to pay, no taxi fares. Cocktails!’

A mint patch has been cultivated in the garden and the new drinks cabinet has been stocked.

‘There’s plenty of mint for mojitos and Morten’s bringing the ingredients for a few other recipes. Harriet tells me he’s a wizard with a blender.’

Harriet and Morten are newly coupled. Harriet and Maude met at a mothering group when Harriet was still married to Fred. From very early on Harriet talked about leaving Fred. I took this with a pinch of salt – Maude talks about leaving me on a daily basis.

Then Harriet left Fred and took her daughter, Bronwen, back to The Lakes.

Arrangements were made with Fred and then Morten arrived on the scene – on a very large motorbike. With the speed of a superhero in a phone booth, Harriet donned leathers and straddled Morten’s impressive engine as often as childcare allowed.

Kenny and Simone were also invited for cocktails. Kenny too has a motorbike, but it didn’t seem worthwhile to get Simone into leather for the trip – they only live 2 doors away.

Morten took control of the cocktail preparation and maintained a steady flow of mojitos and strawberry daquiries. Maude and I were happy to delegate and distribute the drinks to our guests on the terrace. The terrace overlooks our kitchen garden. As I arrived with a tray of drinks I noticed Kenny and Simone peering over the fence into the raised vegetable beds.

‘I see your courgettes have failed,’ observed Simone with a faux pained expression.

‘Not in the least,’ I replied. ‘I chose a miniature variety this year, so that Aurora could pick them easily.’

Simone smiled an indulgent smile and reached for her phone.

‘We went for a giant variety’, she said as she flashed an image of Kenny posing with a courgette the size of a toddler.

Kenny is a former soldier. He and Simone share a penchant for tattoos.

‘Simone’s getting a new one on Tuesday – right across her back. A dragon.’

Kenny and I were in the kitchen with Harriet. Harriet was thrilled at all the tattoo talk – she and Morten were contemplating some body art expressing their newfound love in østnorsk.

‘Only problem is‘, continued Kenny, ’she can’t decide what to put in the dragon’s hands. I was thinking Samurai sword in one and a red rose in the other – to symbolise the opposing sides of her personality.’

Thankfully Simone was out of earshot. I could see that she and Maude were stood looking into my vegetable plot with the sombre expressions of funeral-goers looking into a grave. I tried to help Kenny with his quandary.

‘Not sure she would go for that, Ken. The dragon, I believe, already symbolises strength. I’d suggest a design that shows that strength coupled with horticultural skill: dragon proudly holding courgettes of garden fete-winning dimensions.’

The Greatest Love of All

2010-06-09T22:23:00.004+01:00

Due to wholesale absence and double-booking within the team, I was asked by Morag to attend a moderately important meeting in London. The meeting was to involve an overview of the organisation’s direction of travel in the face of swingeing government cuts. Our National Director made a state visit to our office recently. As he arranged his pashmina to take his leave, he smiled and quipped that we should all brace ourselves for the imminent ‘tsunami’ of public sector cuts.

I was prepared, therefore, for a sober message to take back and cascade to the rest of the team.

The meeting was held at the very agreeable ‘Lovelyspace’ in London – a converted sweetie factory across the road from W B Yeats’ old house. The building has a policy of eat as much as you please in the sunny basement refectory. The breakfasts are especially good – so a post breakfast meeting at Lovelyspace is probably the only way to stop me rocking in halfway through the introductions.

There was quite a buzz around the long, rustic tables. Members of the corporate ‘family’ speculated about the nature of the day’s message to the troops. It was last year’s appointment of Kit as day to day head of the ‘family’ that had allowed the National Director to move into the presidential territory that he prefers/feels he deserves. (There has been talk of an honour – even hushed mentions of a damehood). It was then to be Kit who would really stamp his personal style on the family’s future.

‘Apparently he’s going to ‘really express himself’ today.’

Rita was sat beside me and she was usually in the know – as she worked at The Hub. The Hub is comprised of three of the organisation’s four directorates and is situated in a plush office in Newcastle. Occasionally they buzz me in for a coffee – if it’s raining. The National Director shrewdly joined the ‘Flight of the Quangos’ out to the provinces, in the hope that the more visible bodies in the metropolis would be axed first. A single directorate remains in London – ‘The Rump’, as it is unkindly known.

‘He’s been spending a lot of time in The Cube – not mingling and chatting as much as he usually does. Not like him.’

The Cube is a large glass box in the centre of The Hub – in which Kit works wirelessly at a plain pine table. Kit eschews the word ‘office’.

‘It’s just a space in which to think and share.’

Twin arcs of desks surround The Cube – enabling Kit to cast smiles and winks at his co-creatives as he paces around or chills out on his beanbag.

I was intrigued by this suggestion that Kit would ‘really express himself’. Perhaps my opinion of him had been unfortunately coloured by his twee Facebook status updates or a profile picture which looks like a particularly grating Boden catalogue image.

‘Between you and me,’ Rita continued with an enticing wink, ’I think he’s feeling the pressure.’

The breakfast chatter subsided, as people began to ascend the stairs to the lovely meeting space. There was a renewed buzz as we filed in. The blinds were down in the usually sun-filled room and there was a suspicion of dry ice. On the small stage at the end of the room stood a low level backdrop depicting a graffiti-covered tower block fronted by burnt out cars and menacing figures in silhouette. The giggles of young people could be heard filtering through the door of the speaker’s entrance, stage right. I squinted to see if the table held any clues to what this ‘meeting’ would actually involve. All I could see was the usual array of ‘Lovelyspace’ paper, creative crayons and sweeties.

When the last attendee was seated, the door in the corner opened. Young people dressed in simple white robes began to process into the room – around a dozen in all. They were carrying candles and several were struggling to suppress giggles. They moved into a rehearsed formation in front of the tower block scene and assumed something like a class portrait pose – a kneeling row and others standing.

A slow, deliberate drum beat came over the p.a. and dry ice seeped from the foot of the stage. Colleagues peered through the gloom to gauge each other’s reactions, as momentous piano chords began. For a few moments I was struck by the familiarity of the chord sequence and began to scan my memory to name the tune. It was then that I heard gasps and my eye was attracted the top of the ‘tower block’. Kit was rising out of it on a wire, he too in a white gown and clearly wearing a radio microphone. With a trademark smile and a seductive wink he began:

‘I believe that children are our future.

Teach them well and let them lead the way……’