Nice work if you can get it

Again it's me, stating for the moral guardians of the interweblogging world, THIS IS A SPONSORED POST.

For the few out there that didn't read last week’s post (who am I kidding), those crazy but generous folks over at ASUS have given me one of their new Eee Pad Transformer Tablets to review and let you know how I'm using it in my normal day to day life.  Well to misquote a line from The Fast Show, 'This week I have been mostly using it in the garden.'

We are having one of those glorious early summers in London, and we are all desperately trying to ignore the fact that whilst we are having nice weather now, it does means that July and August are going to be as wet, insipid and dull as a wet T-Shirt contest in an OAP's home.

Be that as it may, we English know how to make hay while the sun shines, so me and the Tablet have set up camp in the garden and have been working from there.  Last year I had to stay chained to my PC to work, infrequently rushing outside to catch some rays like Joan Collins catches husbands (and rays.)

This year is going to be so gloriously better, and I am glad the Chancellor has increased the VAT to 20% as Vodka and Tonic is my summer drink of choice, and an increase of them by 20% is more than welcome.

The Polaris Office software the Tablet comes preloaded with is a joy to work with, in fact my last three articles have been written exclusively on it, and they have been easy to send to my home PC or to upload to the MyCloud facility that also came pre-installed.  It has everything I need to access my work email, and the tools I need to create the pieces of art I call email campaigns. 

All that's left to me is to somehow explain my new tan to my Boss when I next have to make a Head Office visit.  I am currently using the Tablet to Google 'unfortunate discolouration', but all it has come up with so far is WAGS and Essex, neither of which I think my boss will find as an acceptable explanation.

I'm not taking the pee though - I know that the Tablet has the ability to store all my chosen music in MyCloud, so that I can whistle, hum and strangle lyrics whilst I work, but I am resisting that temptation in fairness to my office-trapped colleagues.  Although one of them just sent round a 'joke' email at my expense, so I may well re-evaluate that principle in time for the next blog.

I promised you, my avid and rabid readers, some technical details about the Tablet, so here they are.

• NVIDIA® Tegra™ 2 1.0GHz dual-core CPU for excellent multitasking & 1080p video playback
• Android 3.0 Honeycomb O.S. with Adobe® Flash® 10.2 support
• Full QWERTY keyboard, touchpad input with Polaris® Office® for mobile productivity
• 16 hours long battery life for all day computing with docking station
• Brilliant IPS panel with ultra-wide 178⁰ viewing angle made from scratch resistant and super tough glass
• One year of Unlimited ASUS WebStorage, two USB ports, SD and Micro SD card readers for easy sharing & storage expendability
• 3D stereo with max bass response with SRS premium sound

I have only a vague understanding of what the majority of that lot means, but what I do know is this:

1  I can use it to work in the garden (important)

2  My work colleagues are stuck in a smelly office (oh dear)

3  I'm not (A loud Nelson from The Simpsons Ha Ha)

4  As a result of the Tablet, George Hamilton is going to be coming to me for tanning tips.

Until next week my friends, I bid you Adieu, and don't forget, use sunscreen.

http://techinstyle.tv/blogs/the-eee-pad-transformer-vs-british-summer/

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.

Gardening Leave? Enjoy the garden then.(Part 1)

My wife was recently made redundant from the bank she had worked at for ten years, and was put on gardening leave for the last month of the process. She already had another job lined up, so there was no panic to look for a job and go on countless amounts of interviews, all she had to do was sit back and enjoy the kids for a month. I was also looking forward to a bit of down time, she could share a few of the daily chores, and maybe we could have a few leisurely lunchtime drinks at our local, the 'Sir Alfred Hitchcock'.

Unfortunately for me, rather than spending some time in his pub, I ended up feeling like I was in one of his films, 'Psycho' perhaps, and my Wife started looking like Tippi Hedren in 'The Birds', all manic and rushing around like a headless chicken every time one of the kids kicked off. This is not what I had in mind for that month, but it's what I got, and it resulted in me crossing off the days on the calendar waiting for her to start work again. I know it sounds cruel, but I think after reading my account of that fateful month, you will tend to agree with me.

"I think the house needs painting" were the first words out of her mouth on Day 1. "Of course dear, which room did you have in mind?" Hoping she would pick one of the small ones, the bathroom maybe, where we have just enough room to swing a mouse. "All of it, inside and outside. It hasn't been done in a while and is starting to look a bit shabby, a bit lived in." My reply of "but Darling dearest, is not the point of a house to be lived in, so by definition it will then look lived in?" cut no ice at all. I later heard her telling the water off for being too watery, and the stairs off for being too up-and-downy.

I spent the rest of Day 1 in Homebase (now known as Homewrecker) and then B&Q, because the former did not have the correct shade of white within its range. Our walls were off-white now, would a clean not suffice? Apparently not, we ended up with a shade called "Second Base Sue", it is white with just the mere hint of red. I thought that as I was stuck with this job I may as well add a few toys to the basket. So in went a new multi-purpose sander, the obligatory new paintbrushes (why I ever clean the old ones is beyond me), 3 rolls of masking tape (1 for painting use, 2 for general mischief and taping the kids together), and a new scary potted plant.

I returned home, and was duly invited upstairs to the bedroom. I must admit that whilst climbing the stairs, the thought that my luck was in and I was going to get an early 'reward' did cross my mind. I can only blame the paint fumes for this obviously stupid thought because, as was quickly pointed out, the next time she would be looking at the bedroom ceiling it, and the rest of the room, would be freshly painted. I rather grumpily started to prepare the room.

I don't actually mind the actual painting part of the process, that can be quite relaxing. It's all the washing, sanding, and moving things about part that absolutely does my head in, and I was tempted to skip this part. I have painted over cobwebs before and it is no big deal, but I was sulking now so I decided to work to rule. If Her Royal Highness Queen of all things Bossy was expecting a quick result, she had another thing coming. I was going to eke this out, lest she find me more jobs to do before this god-forsaken month was up.

By the time it was 2pm I was finally ready to start painting. I shouted downstairs "I'm about to start painting, you had best get some 'Painting Beer' ready, you know the rules." The 'rules' are very simple, provide beers for the duration of the painting. It has been scientifically proved (well my Dad said it and that's good enough for me) that your hand is steadier after a couple of beers, therefore improving the accuracy of your brush strokes. It is fair to say that my Wife is not a massive fan of these rules, but as I swear they are Gospel, she is forced to go along with them. Off she went round the corner, and I started to paint over the 'feature' red wall that she thought was a great idea four years ago, but obviously wasn't, and I've had to live with since then.

The Wife eventually returned, and as I had built a thirst up, I went straight to the fridge only to see one of the most perplexing things I have ever seen. She had only bought three beers. Three beers? I could not understand the thought process, who on earth buys three cans of lager? It actually takes more effort to but three than four, as you have to pull one out of the plastic thingy-me-jig that holds them all together. I don't like to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I was not best pleased. I offered my thanks, and took myself and one of my three beers, back upstairs.

A few hours later I shouted down that I was done, and did she want to inspect my work. Up she bounded, hardly containing her excitement (I really need a sarcasm icon to go here), and the inspection began. Almost immediately she pointed out that I had forgotten to do one of the walls. It was then I triumphantly informed her of sub clause a) of the 'rules', which reads "one beer per wall". She delivered three beers, I painted three walls. A fervent debate then followed, which I shall spare you the gory details of, but the end result was the fourth wall being painted, and a promise from her to never do something so daft again.

I would like to say that this was the only disagreement we had during this time, but it wasn't. I would like to say that all went smoothly from then, but it didn't. I would like to say that my wife could take a hint and continue to supply the beer, but she couldn't. Needless to say, this seems like a natural end to this particular chapter, so I end it here......for now.

A Woman's work is never done

Man, it’s been a busy week. What with one thing or another, I don’t seem to have stopped at all recently. I have friends that think being a househusband and stay at home Dad is a piece of cake, and I must admit I don’t do a whole lot to shatter this image. It has always seemed more fun to let them continue to think of me as a lazy bum, who sits around with his feet up all the time, than put them right. I genuinely enjoy winding them up, as they moan about work, by remarking how hard sitting in the garden had been that day. Feet up, beer in hand, listening to Elbow, or if I want to come across as middle class aloof, Coltrane or Brubeck. Not that I consider Jazz to be middle class music of choice, but the people I am winding up tend to.

So I have always been quite quick in agreeing with my mates about how easy a life I have, and it has recently come to my attention, that I am doing all the other housewives out there a huge disservice. I mean, most of the blokes I talk to are husbands themselves, probably with the sneaky suspicion that their own wives are sitting at home doing bugger all, and here comes me, confirming all their worst fears. So it is time to put the record straight, no exaggeration, be it over or under, just what our, (well mine really, they are probably right about their own wives), days are filled up with.

I started writing down what I did all day and it looked a bit like this.

· 8.30 School run.
· 9.15 Back home, change Mates nappy.
· 9.30 Twitter
· 9.45 Do washing
· 10.00 Do washing up
· 10.15 Twitter again
· 10.30 Play bricks with Mate
· 11.15 Pickup Katy

You get the gist of it, pretty boring mundane stuff. I was bored rigid typing it, so I can only apologise for how tedious it must have been to read, and I had not even got to lunchtime. I began to feel that this did not give you an accurate snapshot of what a hard working bunch we are, so I started to think about the weekends. This is the time to kick back and relax, potter about the garden, and generally unwind from the previous weeks work.

Not for us it isn’t. You would think that 2 parents = half the work, but unfortunately the first principle of “Kids Maths” kicks in. So now, 2 parents = twice the work + twice the mess. It is a hard equation to get your head round, and one that only the stay at home parents understand. I know you are trying to help, but all you are doing is just disrupting our routines. Seriously, how many sweets do you think you can give a child, just to get them quieten down so you can watch TV, before the sugar rush kicks in and all hell breaks loose? That’s right, you don’t know, but we do.

Last weekend I agreed to help my brother-in-law out, and deliver 100 catalogues to some of his previous customers. He runs his own kitchen showroom, and I have my eye on this beautiful Lacanche range cooker, so I agreed to help him out (so just remember, next time you need to get your kitchen done, give me a call, I could do with the commission). So having got up with the kids at 6.15am, washed, dressed, and fed them, I left them in the hands of my over-confident wife.

To her credit I only received 3 phone calls while I was out. The last of these I received when I was outside a 12th floor penthouse, and had to explain, much to the amusement of tenants of said penthouse, how to make a loaf of bread in our bread maker. I did not realise “It won’t rise if it’s too wet” was such a funny sentence, until I re-lived it in the lift down.

That finished, I then had to cook dinner, bath the kids, and put them to bed early as we were going to the 40th birthday party of one of my closest mates. I allowed myself a whopping 15 minutes to get ready, remembering the “wife maths” equation of, male preparation time x 4 = wife preparation time.

Eventually the monster-in-law turned up to babysit, and off we went. I could not drink for the first couple of hours as I had to go pick up Dawn at 10.30pm from a drama trip. To her credit she did show her gratitude for my abstention, when I picked her up she asked me to wait round the corner whilst her bags were being unloaded. I tried to convince myself this was because she did not want me to block the road, and not because of the usual Dad embarrassment factor.

I eventually got to back to the party and had to go through the weight yo-yo conversations again. To anyone that had not seen me in 18 months, I had lost a stone and a half, for anyone that had seen me in the last 6 months, I had put on a stone. It turned out to be quite a good party game, “dodge the insult, spot the compliment”. All in all, it was a good night.

The clocks went forward that weekend, and I duly changed all the clocks before we went to bed, all the better to deal with summer-lag. Unfortunately Mate is so clever, that he realised the clocks had changed, and promptly woke up at 6.15am, NEW TIME! I was understandably very proud of his 2 year old brain, and told him so, albeit through gritted teeth.

Sunday was spent ignoring my hangover, getting the vegetables planted, doing the school wash, doing the weekly shop, and general upkeep of myself and wine glass. I would like to say this was an unusual weekend, but alas, they all seem to be like this in one form or another, rushing from one task to another, with not much time to breathe in-between.

I have been trying to write one of these blogs per week, but this one has been 2 weeks in the writing. I apologise for the wait, it’s just I’ve been a bit busy.