A Sporting Chance

The notice on the door read “The children will be taking part in a sporting event so can you please ensure they are wearing sports clothing on Thursday…”  An innocent enough request, in fact it was quite polite of them to actually tell us rather than rely on the memory of a five year old, especially a five year old that can switch subjects faster than I can change TV channels. 

To be honest, it was by pure chance that I even saw the damned sign.  I’m normally so busy juggling book bags, lunch boxes and children that it’s as much as I can do to push the right child through the right classroom door, all in my haste to return the temporary peace and quiet of home.  But I did, so score one for me, Mr Responsible Dad for a change.  This new me may even start reading the school newsletters in future, it would be quite refreshing to be one step ahead of the game rather than standing outside locked school gates on an inset day.

I can then only presume that it was my new smug self confidence that made me forget about the notice until 9pm on the Wednesday night, shit buggery bollocks.  Now I have to decide whether to tell the Mrs now, or try to blag it in the morning.  Before deciding, I pop out to the kitchen to see if I have enough vodka left to help withstand the disdainful looks and tongue-lashing that I am about to receive.  Half a bottle, that’ll do it.  The fact she would be coming with us to drop the kids off in the morning settled the matter, time to face the music.

She took the news as well as could be expected to be fair.  I can only presume that she was relieved that I had remembered 12 hours before the event, rather than the usual 12 minutes.  Nate’s not the kind of kid that wears sports gear, apparently he looks so cute that he only ever gets bought ‘nice’ clothes.  It hadn’t really occurred to me until I needed it that we he didn’t have any of his own.  I decided I would put him in his sisters Arsenal kit, I knew it would fit him and it had been sunny all week so the emergency was over.

Over that was until we woke up on Thursday to clouds and ground frost, bugger.  No tracksuit in the house fit him, so I wrangled everyone together überfast.  I dressed him in the top and shorts for now and we would have to zip into Tesco’s on the way there.  We had an extra 15 minutes to play with so it was going to be tight, tight but doable.  

I’ve always believed in reincarnation, it just makes sense to me.  The trouble is that on mornings like this it becomes glaring obvious that I was either a Spanish Inquisitor, a Hun’s henchman, or a Traffic Warden in a previous life.  I got stuck behind a dustcart and then two Learners on the way there, the 15 minutes I thought we would get in Tesco’s had become six. 

The clothing section was in the far corner of the store and I can only imagine what we looked like running through the shop dragging two bewildered children behind us.  Looking back on it now, I would have loved to have seen the Security Camera footage of those mad five minutes.  The mirth we must have caused as we bounced from camera to camera.  Would they have been able to see the panic in my eyes, the beads of sweat forming on my forehead as we belted up and down the unending aisles of tat?  I like to think so.

We eventually arrived at the right aisle and started pulling clothes of the rails, desperately looking for the right size.  Size 7, size 7, size 4, size 6, size 3, size 8 – it was a numerical dyslexic’s nightmare.  Fortune eventually started to smile on us as we found a hoody (dark blue) and some jogging bottoms (grey) in a size 5.  The bottoms looked a bit long so despite the time ticking away, I got him to try them on.  A perfect fit (ish), but we had no time to lose so we left them on him and leaving the clothes section looking like opening day of the Next Christmas Sales, rushed back to the tills. 

The only ones open were the self service tills, so I picked Nate up and scanned his arse over the scanner.  I was then prompted to “Please place item in bagging area”, bugger, there was nothing else to do but drop Nate in the said area.  The till started to throw a paddy with a series of commands - “Unexpected item in bagging area” then “Are you using your own bags?” and finally “Please wait for assistance”.

I can’t really explain the look on the shop assistants face but ‘Rottweiler licking piss off a thistle’ comes the closest.  She didn’t say a word, she didn’t really need to in all fairness, but after I had paid and started doing the walk of shame out of the store, I could feel her contemptuous stare boring into the back of my scull.  One only matched in intensity by the walking iceberg next to me, an iceberg oft referred to as the Mrs.

Lady Luck finally stated to take pity on me and the ride to school was free of traffic and red lights.  With three minutes to spare I triumphantly ushered the children through the school gates.  The Wife’s perma-scowl was starting to soften and I felt the tension start to ease out of my shoulders.  I honestly tried to suppress the smug grin that begun to form on my face when I saw the other stay at home dad in the playground.  A dad who was holding the hand of a full uniformed son, poor kid, how could you forget, pah?

The smile started to wobble when I saw the offspring of both Yummy and Slummy mummy, who were both in school uniforms of varying tidiness.  I turned to the Mrs and her perma-scowl was back.  I pointed to the sign on the door, Look, see, it quite clearly says “The children will be taking part in a sporting event so can you please ensure they are wearing sports clothing on Thursday 26^th April.”

Bugger.

At least I’m ready for next week then.

Who am I?

OK, stop me if you’ve heard this one. What do you call a Househusband that gets a full time, work from home job? No, no ideas? Nope, me neither. But whatever the answer is, that’s what I’ve become and now I’m suffering from an identity crisis. I’ve spent the best part of three years convincing people that a Stay at home Dad was a real thing, a real occupation, and now I’ve gone and blown it all by getting a ‘proper’ job.


Since this strange turn of events I’ve found that all the people from my old life, my running a pub doing a job type job, have found me a lot easier to deal with. They now seem able to talk to me about things other than my kids, like the kids were the only thing that defined me. They genuinely seem happier, almost safer, when they ask me how my day has been, safe in the knowledge I will be able to give them an answer they can relate to.

Instead of moaning about screaming kids decorating my carpet with permanent markers, I’ve found myself moaning about clients daring to have an opinion, stationery requirements and email etiquette. And while we’re on the subject of email etiquette, what’s with those people that add a P.S. to the end of an email? Are you really too lazy to move the mouse up a bit and insert the inane drivel you had momentarily forgot about, into the main text? Isn’t P.S. only relevant to the written word where you are unable to magically insert text?

Even worse than that, are all the bloody emoticons littering my inbox. I could barely cope with them on twitter or facebook, but aren’t we meant to be professionals here? Has the workplace changed so much during my brief sojourn into insanity? Imagine my shock when one of my male colleagues sent me an email that contained this sentence:

“I would <3 a beer right now.”

You want to stick your testicles in a pint of beer? Seriously? What kind of company had I started working for when not only do their employees manipulate their reproductive organs into inappropriate storage devices, but they openly boast about it as well? Then I started wondering how my female colleagues would appropriately respond. Would Rhonda from Customer Procurement reply thus?

“Me too, I’m going to % that bottle of beer as soon as I can.”

What’s scaring me the most is that I’m actually turning into one of them. I actually got excited about stationary today. I opened a new box of biros with the same excitement and anticipation that I used to reserve for a new pristine packet of wet wipes.

So now I feel like a bit of a fraud and it could not have come at a worse time. I have just been made the Class Rep at school, a fact that has shocked all that know me, no more so than ‘er-not-indoors. The head of the PTA collared me in the playground a month ago and asked me if I would like to take on this ‘pleasant responsibility’. The shock of one of the yummy mummies, sorry I mean THE yummy mummy actually approaching me, put me on the back foot, and my natural instinct to lie my arse off disappeared. The conversation went like this:

Yummy Mummy – How would you like to be the class rep?

Shocked Me – I really don’t think I’m the type of person you want for that kind of job.

Yummy Mummy – Of course you are, I see you chatting to people, you’re quite friendly, you’ll be fine. (Not perfect you’ll note, just fine.)

Scared Me – You may well have seen me chatting to people, but I’ll bet you haven’t seen many chatting back, they tend to avert their eyes like I’m selling The Big Issue.

Yummy Mummy – Don’t be silly, I’m sure lots of them buy The Big Issue.

Stumped Me - {gives a look of women’s logic incredulity}

Yummy Mummy – So I will put your name down then. (Also note the lack of question mark here)

Scrambling Me – Names, that’s it. I don’t know anybody’s names, I’m useless at them.

Yummy Mummy – You’re being silly again, of course you do.

Sardonic Me – Listen hon, I’ve known your for two years and whenever I refer to you I call you the tall blonde one. (She’s 7 foot 3 inches in Uggs)

Yummy Mummy – Well my name is Ann and you’ll be fine.

Surrendered Me – OK

So my rather long winded point being, is that now I have to speak to a load of Mums that I haven’t really had any dialogue with, and as sure as eggs are eggs they always ask me what I do for a living. I would normally answer with “I’m a househusband/Housebitch” and give them a ‘what of it stare’. That now feels like a lie though, and for reasons I cannot fathom makes me uneasy.

Am I, by saying that I’m able to do a full time job as well as my househusband duties, admitting that being a stay at home parent is really only half a job? Or am I telling the world that I am indeed Superman, and there isn’t anything I cannot achieve? Neither sit well with me to be honest because neither are true, as any real housewife or anyone that know my numerous failings (which is actually everyone that knows me) will testify.

Until I manage to figure this out I think I shall remain nameless. ‘The life and times of a Househusband’ may become ‘The life and times of a confused work from home, but what is work really when it comes to it, husband’. You can refer to me as that bloke that used to be funny but now thinks too much.

I have to go now, I have a wash to put on and a stationery request to file. Fluorescent Sharpies anyone?

P.S. My first responsibility as Class Rep was to organise and run the Bar at the Winter Fayre, hic, what a result.

Housebandian Rhapsody

Is this just my life?
It's sure no fantasy
Caught in a timeslip
Of such endless banality
Open my eyes
And try to smell fresh coffee
I'm just a Houseband
Getting no sympathy
Because I'm "get this Dad", "take me here"
"where's my socks?" need a beer
Every day the same shit
Doesn't really matter to me, to me

Mama just ate some ham
Put some eggs upon her plate
Picked her fork up and she ate
Mama, breakfast just begun
And now you've gone and ate it all away
Mama, ooh
Didn't mean to make them fried
If they're not poached just right this time tomorrow
Have them boiled, have them boiled, it doesn't really matter

We're late, school bell has rung
Putting washing on the line
Body's aching all the time
Goodbye lazy mornings
I've got to sweep
Gotta find those dust bunnies and old cobwebs
Dusting, oooooooh (Every way the wind blows)
I just don't know why?
Sometimes wish I'd never cleaned up at all

[Air Guitar Solo]

I hear a moody teenage girl upon the stairs
Hair goes Whoosh. Hair goes Whoosh. Lost in a cloud of perfume
Purple nails and scrunchy, very, very trendy indeed
Where's my trainers? Where's my trainers? Where's my trainers and my coat?
Oh here we go-o-o-o-o
I'm just a young girl nobody loves me
She's just a young girl from a Twitter family
Sparing her nails from this monstrosity

Party please, ends at 12, will you let me go?
You're joking? No, we will not let you go
Let her go
You're joking? We will not let you go
Let her go
You're joking? We will not let you go
Let me go (Will not let you go)
Let me go (Will not let you go) (Never, never, never, never)
Let me go, o, o, o, o
No, no, no, no, no, no, no

Put that down Mate. Put that down Mate. Put it down before it burns
The A&E has a gurney put aside for thee, for thee, for thee

So you think that these spuds will just peel themselves
So you think that your clothes just appear on your shelves
Oh, children, can't do this to me, children
Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here

[Air Guitar Solo]
(Oooh yeah, Oooh yeah)

I do all the hard work
For a lousy fee
I do all the hard work
I do all the hard work for free

I deserve a beer now...

Sheer Bliss, plus Mate

Its 7am Monday morning, the busiest and most hectic 2 hours of the week are upon me. The previous nights bottle of Cava only slightly slowing me down as I try to organise thoughts and plans in my head. 7.00-7.20 is Dawns slot in the bathroom, so a shout upstairs and a returned grunt gets that process going. Breakfasts are made, lunch boxes sorted, uniforms thrown on various children as I consider the first coffee of the day.

Dawn has overrun her allotted time, so a grumbling mumbling Wife takes the 7.25-7.50 position. Katy's elasticated tie is being used as a slingshot, her cardigan is on upside down, and her shoes are on the wrong feet. So far so good, a definite improvement on last week. Dawn slams out of the door, then sheepishly comes back in 2 minutes later to pick up forgotten homework. I actually get a goodbye second time round.

Wife eventually graces us with her presence, leaving me with the 7.55-8.00 final slot. I actually waste 30 seconds of my time looking in the mirror, always a mistake as the day is getting old fast, as am I by the looks of it. I waste a further 30 seconds trying to convince myself the grey makes me look more George Clooney than George Formby. An argument I lose every time. No time for a proper wash, will have to use the 'spray the deodorant in the air and wander around' trick. Can't dare despoil the wonderfully sculpted noses of the Mums who are unfortunate to be downwind of me in the playground. Well not again anyway.

Back downstairs and it's time to redress Katy, grab a sip of cold coffee, and pour everybody into the car. School bags, lunch bags, PE bags, and handbags all thrown in after them. A quick look around to check I have everything, which of course I haven't, so I pick up the nearest three things to me, and hope one of them fits the bill. Drop wife at station where she realises she has forgotten her glasses. Apparently my offer of either a stapler, empty CD case, or a blue sock does not help. A very silent (well silent on my part) drive back to the house ensues. Back to the station where a grateful (again, grateful on my part) drop off is completed. I have now lost 40% of the household, 20% to go. This is the kind of fiscal deficit I like.

On to Katy's school and we are actually early for a change, and by early I mean on time. I get a puzzled look from the caretaker as I walk past, and I realise this is the first time he has seen me not running with a child under each arm. His look of puzzlement returns to a smile as I run back to the car to retrieve the forgotten book bag. I grab a handful of hair clips from my pocket and attempt to do something with Katy's hair. I stand back and admire my work. She now looks like she has survived a heavy gale, rather than a full blown tsunami, so I am pleased. I go to wipe away her tears of abandonment but she has gone without even a backward glance. I vow to deal with my own abandonment issues. Maybe next term.

A slow walk back to the car, stuck behind the slow procession of Chanel No5 fumes and Mummy's with buggies. I forget about a quick getaway, and holding my breath, join the procession. Eventually I reach the car, my face a shade of blue from oxygen deprivation. A few deep breaths and my head stops swimming and I am OK to drive. I should walk really, it's only a 15 min walk, but what's the point having a car if you don't use it?

I arrive home twenty minutes later. Bloody school run traffic, drives me crazy. Go to get the unwanted stapler, CD case and sock out of the car, but decide against it, you never know when they will come in handy. I sweep them onto the floor to join the map of France, the old video remote, and a forgotten Teddy Bear called Tongue. Like I said, you just never know.

I open the door to the house and close it behind me, maybe a little too loudly, too extravagantly. A smile appears on my face for the first time today as I survey the silence. All I can hear is my own small giggle as I contemplate the lazy day ahead. Maybe I will put a wash on, probably not though. Maybe I will wash the kitchen floor, almost definitely not. Maybe I will read the paper cover to cover whilst sipping a piping hot cup of coffee, I answer out loud. A resounding "Sounds like a plan". I laugh again. I am happy with my lot, happy with my new found solitude. Not so happy with this new development of talking to myself, but I'm sure I will get used to it.

A small tap on the door brings me back to reality. I turn expecting to see the postman at the door, but I see nothing through the frosted glass. Another tap on the door and I open it with a slight frustration. I look down and there stands my two year old son Mate. His look says 'you forgot me again', his mouth says "breakfast". I gather him into my arms, go back into the house, and recalculate my day.

Sheer bliss, plus Mate.

It’s our first day

This is it, this is the day, the day all our hard work and effort has been leading to. The day when at last, finally, Katy starts school. It seems like this day has been spoken about (in hushed reverend tones) since Katy spoke her first word over 3 years ago. It was "Pub" by the way, her first word. Made me proud, also got me a filthy look from her Mum, but you can't have it all can you.

Anyway the day has arrived, I am totally prepared, uniform, bags, PE kit, lunch snacks, all have been purchased, labelled and packed. I have even bought spare batteries for the camera, and have them hidden away in the case. I need to avoid a repeat of the first day of nursery fiasco, referred to as the 'You had to remember one effin thing Day' around these parts. Even the neighbours (on both sides) call it that.

I obviously can't be trusted to dress her for the first day, so am relegated downstairs to deal with Mate. You would have thought it may be a good idea to at least to watch how it's done, especially on the basis it will be me doing it from tomorrow onwards, but no. I imagine I may be given an instruction guide tomorrow, I do appreciate that school socks are that much more difficult to put on.

Mate seems quite happy though, he is wearing socks for the first time in 6 weeks, all the better for hiding those dirty ankles. I have spent a great deal of time planning my own appearance as well, you know how judgemental the Mums can be. I spent 10 minutes looking in the mirror deciding whether to shave or not. It's an important decision you know, you have to start as you mean to go on. Sod it, I don't want to spoil them on the first day. Plus if I raise the bar too high for myself, it will only lead to long term failure.

Have gone for the clean but scruffy look, like a Big Issue seller done good. Was quite proud of myself until I got sent back upstairs to change, "Quite frankly you are an embarrassment to be seen with". A bit harsh I feel, must be the nerves. OK, clean three quarter lengths and an un-ripped T-shirt this time, no socks though, not until winter anyway. I even remember to put on my special aftershave, the one that didn't come attached to a deodorant bottle. That should impress the Yummy Mummies, plus it does tend to keep the flies off me as well, which is good.

Time for the photos, she looks so beautiful, I think my heart is breaking again. I somehow manage to poke myself in both eyes with the camera, it has made me go all misty, well that's my story and I'm sticking to it. Trying to get Katy to pose for the photos is proving difficult. She managed to stand still and smile nicely for the first 50, but things aren't looking so good now. Although to be fair, I do wonder how easy it is to strike a natural pose when your Mother is screaming "smile properly" at you?

The first day starts later than normal, I guess designed to give you a less stressful start. It has also meant that I have had time for three cups of strong coffee, and I am beginning to think that this may have been a mistake. I can feel myself getting more manic and twitchy. I have been warned not to talk too much when I get there. When I get nervous I tend to joke a lot, it's my own Superhero Confidence Cape. Apparently this does not create the best first impression though. I will always be referred to by the nursery parents as 'that bloke who told Mrs Swithers her orange top matched her tan'. Maybe I should go stand in the corner and shout out random punch lines, get it all out of my system. This had just resulted in more frowns of disapproval, I fear I may be fighting a losing battle.

I have compiled a list of ways to behave on your first day of school. A kind of mixture of warnings and tips on how best to interact with all the new friends you will be making. So far it reads:

Be friendly

Don't interrupt people when they are talking

Always keep eye contact

Don't let anyone bully or intimidate you

If it all goes wrong, don't cry, just go and tell someone

I am hoping this will help me make friends with the Mums, am wondering if I should make a list for Katy.

Well that's it, it's time to go, there is nothing more I can do to prepare us. I am as ready as I can ever be. Be brave, be brave, I'll be fine, of course I will.

God, I want my Mum.

Book ‘em Danno!

Ever since Katy and Mate (four and two respectively) started sharing a room over a year ago, myself and the good Wife (as opposed to the bad Wife who pops her head up come nagging time), have developed a routine in the mornings that enables us to grab an extra hours dozing time. Mate normally wakes first at about 6am, so I quickly grab him and take him downstairs, chuck him in the sofa bed, and jump in myself for the extra snoozing time. Katy will then wake up at 7am, and snuggle in with her Mum, watch some TV, until boredom and hunger hits at about 7.30am, then we are all reunited.

This works fine unless they both wake up at the same time, say 6.45am, then nothing seems to work, and all hell breaks loose. So we have started an experiment where, when this happens, I just go into them, turn the light on, throw him a few building bricks and her, a book, and just let them get on with it. We don't get the same amount of nap time, but it can be quite fun just listening to them.

Mate has been able to say everyone's name in the house except Katy, but he sussed that out last week, and the words are now all spewing out like verbal diarrhoea. This morning Katy started teaching him new words to say, and helping him with the pronunciation. It all started fairly easily Mum, Dad, Dawn, Katy, Dog (followed by lots of barking from him, and impatience to move on from her), head, tongue (?), clap (followed by lots of clapping, more Katy impatience, woof obviously taught her nothing), hippopotamus! This last one came as a bit of a surprise, especially as Katy can't even pronounce it herself.

I blame my Wife for this, for whilst she is the chief correct-speller-and-all-things-grammar, of the house, she cannot pronounce the long words for toffee. Hearing her attempt to read Katy any book involving dinosaurs is a comic lesson in mispronunciation. John Clesse may be head of the "Ministry of silly walks", but my darling Wife is Vice-chairman of the "Tongue-Tangling Society". I actually fell off the bed laughing the last time she tried to pronounce "Cretaceous", and don't even get me started on "Styracosaurus", too funny.

She has now, quite unreasonably in my opinion, refused to read the night-time story, thus depriving both me, and the kids, of quality mickey-taking time. Now book reading is on my list of chores, along with cooking, gardening, washing, and anything else that requires breaking a sweat. I used to be very self conscious about reading out loud, everything I read came out in a John Major type dull monotone, but armed with the thought that 'how could I be any worse that their Mum', I have started to excel.

I can do the voices, the animal noises, the growls, the roars, the quiet bits, the LOUD BITS, I sometimes even sing. I am a legend in my own Imagination. My very best attribute is the ability to read the rhyming books really fast. This enables me to get downstairs, and into a chair and a beer, a lot quicker than normal. Katy does not even feel short-changed, as she loves it just as much when I muck the words up, as when I ace it.

Another change now that books are in my domain, are the mocking-mummy books. These are normal (but unfamiliar to Katy) books where I can change the plotline to regal her with one of the Wife's drunken exploits. The names are changed to protect the innocent (and guilty), and it can be quite a challenge to fit, say 'drunkenly asking a policeman for a Tango' into a child's story.

This whole process of writing these blogs, has given me a healthy respect for children's authors. I used to be quite dismissive, not of the genre, but of certain types of stories, and would be quite dismissive "Katy, that one is rubbish, put it back". I mean, how hard can it be to write a story for children?

Well, quite hard it seems. I thought it would be quite cool if I could write a story for Mate and Katy, maybe get them to colour in some pictures for it, and maybe even get it published. Such lofty ideas, I had it all planned out. I sat down and started writing the outline for the plot, with the intention to then go back, flesh it out, and add some dialogue. After a few hours pondering, and typing, deleting, and pondering, with some more typing thrown in for good measure, I had my plotline nailed.

I love the word crestfallen, so descriptive, and so apt in this case. To a muted drum roll I give you my story.

There are seven beautiful princesses living alone in the woods, with only a talking bunny and a clumsy deer for company. A Prince comes to rescue them, but he is so ugly, they all kissed frogs to escape, and turned into dinosaurs. All except one, who run off with a wolf with beautiful red fur, and lived happily ever after, raising abandoned baby monkeys. The Prince was so distraught, he locked himself in a tall tower, with only weaving midget for company. The End.

What was I thinking, published, you must be joking. Even if it was, I am sure Disney's copyright lawyers would have a field day with it, such a blatant mishmash and rip off if ever I saw one. I genuinely did not realise as I was working, that I was just rehashing old films. Blame Disney for getting so far into our psyche, I don't know?

I have decided to leave children's books to the experts, experts like Debi Gliori, whose book "No Matter What", I read a while back. It is a fairly simple tale of small fox and his Dad. Small keeps asking his Dad if he would love him if he was grumpy, a bear, a bug, etc. His Dad answers that he will always love him, no matter what. "But what about when you're dead?" Small then asks. The Dad then shows Small the stars in the sky, and explains, "Look at the stars – how they shine and glow, but some of those stars died a long time ago. Still they shine in the evening skies. Love, like starlight, never dies."

I think Shakespeare was the greatest wordsmith and poet, but I think even he would have been proud of that description. It certainly brought tears to my eyes when I read it, and still does to be honest.

Writing kid's books easy? I somehow doubt it, but getting better recognition for your work from this Dad, just got a lot easier.

Five go mad in Devon

It was my birthday recently, not one of the big numbers like 40, 50, or 60. Not even one of the ones that has a comment attached to it like 29 “It’s all downhill from here (male) your biological clock is ticking (female)”, or 39, “Ohh 40 next year, nearly time for a crisis.” I am a plain boring old 38. See you can’t even think of a single comment, funny or otherwise to make, it is a truly dull age to be.

My darling Wife, perhaps sensing the impending mood of prevalent doom, decided to surprise me with a weekend away to my spiritual Zanadu in Devon. I had spent the previous night with a couple of old friends having a near-middle-aged-indoors-because-I-have-to-babysit-drink-up, and was feeling slightly the worse for wear when I received this news. I showed as much enthusiasm as my, now boringly aged, body would let me, cancelled my plans of getting drunk in the garden, and started to make a mental check list of required luggage. Favourite pants in case I got lucky, favourite book in case I didn’t.

My booze addled brain then started to wonder who was having the kids during this weekend getaway. In my head various suspects were proposed and ignored. My brother-too busy, my sister-never changed a nappy, Oma-moving on swiftly, my parents-already in Devon, brother in law-too single, sister in law-too organised. I just could not figure out who was having the kids.

All of a sudden a thought, so terrifying it caused a sumo-like retraction in my nether regions, occurred to me. There was only one couple I knew, that would be stupid enough to look after the kids for the weekend, and in the next sentence my Wife confirmed it. “The children are so looking forward to going to the beach.”

So off we went one big happy family on a 200 mile, 5 hour car trip to insanity, via the A303. In fairness to the kids, they were not that bad on the outbound trip, not that good, but not that bad. I had read somewhere that the word “posh” was an acronym derived from an old term they used on the cruise liners, “Port Outbound, Starboard Home”. On that basis, there was “Plentifully Angry Infant Noise” from the “Getting In The Sea”, and our vehicle was “Flippin Useless Car Knows Every Diversion”.

We eventually reached our destination at 10.45pm. The kids had stayed awake for the whole journey, only to fall asleep at 10.15pm, just in time for us to wake them up to take them to the hotel room. You could tell the Receptionist was impressed, by the way her perma-pencilled eyebrow arched. I don’t know what her problem was, she was hardly likely to be staying in the room below us. The people who walked in behind us got that particular room. They were the ones with every right to be worried. Although on the basis that he seemed to be fifty with a few quid, and she was 25, orange and was wearing a belt for a skirt, it looked like they might be keeping us up.

Upon entering our “Family Room”, I got my next birthday surprise. I had imagined a double bed with room for a cot at the bottom, and an adjoining room with a couple of single beds for the other two. What I was actually faced with was one room with a double bed, and a pull out sofa bed. Joy of joys, any idea of any naughtiness or relaxation, was now completely out of the window.

We unpacked and settled everyone into their beds. Luckily for me, my Wife had had the foresight to bring a travel-bottle of Jack Daniels for me, to go with the bottle of Coke purchased from the service station. I drank it “alcoholic private eye style”, straight from a coffee cup. All that was missing was some Pepto Bismol and a gun, and I could have been Phillip Marlowe. So there we were, my own little “Partridge Family”, except as we were in a Travelodge it was more like an “Alan Partridge Family”.

It was quite unsettling to realise how alike me and the kids are, judging by the amount of giggles going on each time one of us broke wind, anyway. The only one not amused was the wife, in fact she was starting to remind me of the boss cowboy in Blazing Saddles, “I think you’ve had enough beans, boys!”, except he didn’t have a moustache and an attitude.

The rest of the night went a lot more smoothly than expected, and the usual morning chaos that is feeding and cleaning, also went well. “Strength in Adversity” will now become our new family motto, which is good because our previous motto “Why does it always happen to us”, lacks a certain punch.

We met up with my parents, Aunt Joan, Cousin Jon and wife, and Cousin Neil and family. 11am was too early to start drinking, so we headed on down to the beach. Budleigh Salterton has a beautiful beach, made up entirely of smooth round stones. Sand always sounds like more fun, but as sand ends up everywhere, and I have an aversion to wearing sandpaper pants, this type of beach suits me just fine. Plus it gave me and my cousins another chance to play our infamous “Throw like a girl” game. Rules are fairly simple, pick up a stone in your wrong hand, take a run-up, throw it as far as you can, fall on the floor crying with laughter as you are mocked for how stupid you look. If you don’t believe me try it, it is singularly the funniest thing you can do for free.

It is amazing how much fun doing nothing is. The rest of the weekend was full of walking, drinking, eating, oh, and buying a load of herb plants from the village hall. Village life rocks, in the can you turn the radio down a bit, type of way. Before we knew it, it was time for the journey home.

Mate actually fell asleep an hour into the journey, which is unheard of. Katy chose that moment to start getting loud and whingey, and would only be quietened down by a sweet. The obvious noise reconvened as soon as said sweet was finished, and after various telling’s off, the cunning little madam offered this piece of advice, “I can’t talk when I am eating sweeties, so more sweeties would make me quiet”. How can you argue with logic like that? Sweets were duly dished out every 10 minutes or so, until I spied Mate starting to wake up. “Daddy, can I have another quiet sweetie please?” “That’s OK darling, your brother is awake now, so the quiet sweets can go away.” Advantage Daddy, huh, take that little girl, I win you lose. Except now the sugar rush had kicked in, so we were forced to listen to the Ting Ting CD (her favourite), to channel all her excess noise.

The only other thing of note to occur that weekend happened near Stonehenge. There is a huge natural pig farm almost opposite the site, so whilst I was trying to direct everyone’s gaze to, in my humble opinion, one of the most amazing monuments England has to offer, Katy had spotted something far more interesting. “Daddy what is the birdie doing?” I looked over to where she was pointing, only to see something that had never been covered by any David Attenborough documentary I had ever watched. Standing on the back of one of the pigs, was a huge crow, pecking God knows what, out of the pigs butt. All I was certain of though, was that it was not going to find the cure for Swine flu there, and that there was no way was Mrs Crow going to give him a welcome home kiss tonight.

I have always felt that Easter holidays are the mock exams to the summer holidays GCSE’s. That therefore, must make Bank holiday trips the last minute revision on how not to relax.

Am I being unreasonble?

This week I set myself a task to find out what Mums talk and moan about. Now obviously I know what my wife talks and moans about, but as I find those subjects boring, I presumed you would too, so I had to look further afield for inspiration. There was no point listening to the other mothers at the school gate, as they all seem to turn mute whenever I am near. I secretly wonder if the government has pulled a master-stroke, and employed all these women to spy for MI5, as I don’t even know the names of half of them, let alone any decent gossip. Seriously, my wife has dropped Katy off 5 times this year, and yet when I tell a story about Daniels mum she replies “Susan, you mean, did you know she lives opposite our Dentist?”

Desperate times lead to desperate measures, so I ventured onto the Internet looking for Mum’s discussion boards. I decided to keep clear of the one my wife uses, as who wants to read how insensitive I was being the last time I did all the washing, ironing, and cleaning, and then wanted to sit down with a beer, God forbid. I had contemplated signing on as a Lady (would that make me an inter-tranny?), just to gee the conversations along, but found there was absolutely no need.

I hit pay-dirt quite quickly (which just proves I do listen sometimes), and found a “Mums on the net” site that my wife had previously mentioned, and seemed very popular. So I went to the topic boards and found the most staggering thing. What I thought would be the most popular topic, “Parenting”, had a whopping 14,572 posts. With subjects ranging from, ARE YOU THE KIND OF PARENT YOU WANT TO BE(65 posts), IS BEING ABLE TO COOK FROM SCRATCH A NECESSITY FOR A PARENT(49 posts), to my personal favourite CAN I PUT MY CHILD ON EBAY(11 posts?), it seemed to cover all the bases needed to be today’s perfect Mum.

I continued my search, and to my absolute astonishment found a subject more popular that “Parenting” on a “Mum’s parenting site”. I feel like teasing you for a bit, and not letting you know what all Mum’s seem to be talking about, but with the presumption that the majority of people reading this will be women, you obviously all know the answer anyway. “Am I being unreasonable?” is this year’s No. 1, straight in with 16,940 posts. That is almost 2,500 mothers moaning more about being unreasonable, than wondering if dropping a 4 year old on the head really does cause them to forget parts of the alphabet (42 posts).

I spent the next 3 hours reading these posts with a wide range of emotions and reactions, incredulous being the main one. TO WANT TO BUY UNISEX CLOTHES (19 POSTS) Why? TO NOT WANT MY KIDS TO GROW ANYMORE (17 posts) Have you entered them into a dwarf throwing competition then? TO WANT A NEW FRONT DOOR (8 posts) This is not the B&Q website! TO HATE MY BANK (16 posts) The equivalent of quite liking oxygen. TO THINK MY SON IS A SPOILT BRAT (71 posts) You’re right, he is, get off the computer and take his toys away.

I only managed to get through the first 6 of 85 pages so whilst I’m sure this list will change as I work my way through, here are my top 5 in reverse order.

5. TO FIND THIS USERNAME OFFENSIVE (275 posts) The user name in question was ANYF***ER, and in the replies that followed, I can honestly say, I have never ever seen so much swearing in print in my entire life. One person obviously decided to attempt to give this poor old prude a stroke, by inserting C**T or F**K in between every other word. Ladies, ladies.

4. TO TELL DS TO HIT THIS LITTLE BOY BACK (324 posts) Now if it was not for the fact I had to ring my wife and ask what DS meant (darling son FYI), I would have thought this post had been wrote by a Dad. I think the Mum in question had added half the chat room to the list by the time the discussion had finished.

3. DRUG USE – WHAT DO YOU FIND ACCEPTABLE (322 posts) I have always been of the opinion that if your child’s hands are too small to roll a joint, then they are probably too young to smoke it, call me old fashioned. Upon further reading I discovered they meant for the adults once the children had gone to bed. It seems Merlot is no longer the middle class Mum’s drug of choice.

2. NICK CAVE (266 posts) That is all it said, honestly. Further in, she explains that she heard a rumour that his wife was pregnant and could anyone living in Hove confirm it. The first 10 replies mocked her for being in the wrong section (I could not find the celebrity stalker section either, to be fair); the other 256 had a discussion about his moustache.

1. TO BE SECRETLY CHUFFED WHEN TEENAGE BOYS SHOUTED M.I.L.F. AT ME WHEN I WALKED BY(391) This woman was so pleased with herself, and received many congratulations from her fellow “I feel so fat” Mum’s. A few people needed the term explained to them (but as a newly discovered DH or OH, who am I to mock). All was nice and polite until a very straight talking Mum advised her that “I have a 15 year old son, and I can tell you they get turned on by anything, and often get an erection when the wind changes direction!” As I read this, I could feel the gust of a deflated ego, brush over my tear streaked cheek. I could not stop laughing for 10 minutes. I hear the resulting cat fight, is still spoken about in hushed voices.

At the start of this quest I expected to find out what our lovely wives and girlfriends really thought about us evil men folk, but what I found instead is so much more entertaining, and has replaced the latest Warren Ellis book as my bedtime reading material.

So, I guess my next quest will have to be…..is there anything you don’t talk about.