So out of chronological order I give you the night and morning following the 6 year old’s birthday party.

We left Gramps in charge on Saturday night.  He is officially THE best babysitter ever; Encouraging us to stay over and come back late morning the following day!

We went to My Sister’s housewarming.  It was a really good do.  Her new house is lovely and it already looks like they’ve lived there for years … in a good way!

I was told to bring one of our camping lamps because the light had broken in the downstairs loo.  I could only locate a wind up one, that only actually seems to work as you are winding it.  Unfortunately, after only one drink and only 15 minutes into the party, I told someone, in a new relationship, not to waste his wrist action in the downstairs toilet.  The Husband was horrified.

It was OK though, because later, when The Husband couldn’t focus he made several verbal faux pas, tried to break some fire wood for the fire bucket with some kung fu moves and then passed out on the spare bed.  Later in the night I had to stop him from wandering to the toilet naked.  He opted to wear My Sister’s faux, floor length, fur coat which was hanging on the back of the spare rooms door.  Think Cruella De Vil. When I imparted this information the following day My Sister couldn’t work out whether she was mortified or amused.

I imagine that coat will be in the dry cleaners quicker than you can say ‘All fur coat, no underpants’.

When we arrived home the following day, it sounded like the kids had thoroughly enjoyed themselves.  The 4 year old woke Gramps very early.  They went to the local nature reserve and then played in the street until we got home.

I don’t think I will ever forget arriving home to find Gramps playing tennis, in the street, with the 4 year old … his face painted, by the 6 year old.

Those of you who read My Sister’s blog will want to know if ‘Ole twinkly Eyes’ showed up.  Well he didn’t, and I was actually quite glad.  The merrier I got the more people became aware of the review I did of ‘my sister’s man friend’.  it could have been a tad embarrassing.

Our garden is an ant paradise.  The 4 year old regularly comes to show me his latest kidnap victim before releasing it back into the wild before, more than likely, cycling over it accidentally on his bike.  A few weeks ago they both spent quite a lot of time capturing ants in bowls only for them to escape.

Clearly Gramps was on the case.  After putting together the contraption and telling the children to collect 40 ants he left … Thanks Gramps.

There followed lots of squealing, shouting and hysterical cries of “I’VE GOT ONE” just to get eight of the little buggers in there.  No sooner do you open the hatch to put another one in  then three break free and run for the hills.

Four days in and we have about 20 in there. They seem happy enough, chomping on apple and cucumber and making burrows.

I have learnt that ants are very sociable, that is until you add ants from different colonies.  Ants from our front and back gardens do not mix well.  They fight and have to be removed … naughty ants.

The 4 year old seems to have handed his title of West Yorkshire Ant Harasser over to the 5 year old who is taking her job very seriously.

… they make me feel itchy.

For the past year I have been training to be a Driving Instructor. Like many people who are not public servants or Ministers of Parliament, my dreams of retirement are exactly that. Just dreams. So I am now, aged 60, a Trainee Driving Instructor waiting to pass the dreaded part 3 exam which, worryingly, has only a 30% pass rate.

Working as a trainee instructor I have a diary filled with pupils of all nationalities or who have some connection with countries other than the United Kingdom. Some examples; Elfreta, British born but with Nigerian parents and, for a reason I forget, a German forename. Chloe, a Parisian, whose father is American and mother Scottish. Petra, Czech not Czechoslovakian, I am corrected with the hard look of a Scot mistaken for an Englishman. Carlos has a Mexican mother and English father and Suresh an Indian who relates colourful stories of driving in Delhi. Other pupils have connections with South Africa, Uganda, Wales and my latest pupil, judging by the name is probably Turkish – German. 

 This experience, late in my life, has unearthed a memory of teaching your sister and, years later you to drive.

When your sister reached the appropriate age I readily agreed to teach her to drive. Now, as a trained driving instructor I can, within the first two hours lesson, have even the most useless pupil driving around with some confidence. Looking back it seemed to take a long time and endless patience to get both of you beyond the kangaroo hopping stage.

My only clear memory of teaching your sister was of being pestered into taking her out one evening. Despite having had a very stressful day I reluctantly gave in, forgetting entirely that I had taken a couple of Kalm pills, pills that claimed to reduce stress along with any other vital signs of life. Your Sister was fairly competent at this point but still needed occasional prompting. Of course, inevitably, a crisis developed. Hurtling towards a line of parked cars with a car coming towards her she asked in an increasingly shrill voice for advice. Eventually, her shrieking penetrated my Kalm pill induced coma and I famously told her to ‘do what you like’ nowadays encapsulated in the phrase ‘whatever’. Surprisingly, despite a noisy clattering of door mirrors your sister and the car survived.

Nearly ten years later it was your turn to experience my amateur driving instruction techniques, techniques that had not progressed over the decade. You took your first tentative moves at the same place as your sister; the site, at the time occupied by the abandoned offices and factory premises of the John Collier tailoring company and now replaced by a leisure complex. After the mandatory period of hops and engine stalls you started to progress quite well and within a few weeks you were confidently motoring around the industrial site roads, which included a small roundabout. One evening, at the end of our session, impressed with your confidence I told you to drive us home. You did remarkably well until we arrived at the infamous four lane Otley roundabout.

Of course, in retrospect, the responsible and sensible thing to do was to stop you before the roundabout and take over the driving. But you seemed so calm; I completely missed the white knuckles, the beads of sweat on the brow and staring eyes. You did well and negotiated the chaos of the late rush hour traffic and amid a cacophony of car horns and squealing tyres to emerge safely on the other side. It was a while before recovered from the trauma and asked me to take you out driving again.

I often relate this story to my pupils as a ‘don’t run before you can walk’ parable. It always raises a laugh; something you certainly didn’t do at the time.

Laura

Did I read on your Sister’s blog (post entitled Slip of the Tongue) that the 5 year old had exclaimed “Oh, shit!” at your Sister’s house?

This reminds me of a caravaning holiday in, of all places Bangor, with Rosemary and Martin. Martin and I were stood in the doorway of somewhere which must have had toilet facilities. You as a six year old pushed past us saying in a loud voice. “I need a piss!”

I’m not quite sure where you picked that up from.

Love Pops

A few weeks ago, during our regular visit to the swimming baths, my granddaughter and I discussed the plans for the day that my wife and I were to look after her and the 4 year old during the school holidays.

We decided on a gruelling schedule, a school holiday decathlon; dog walking, swimming, bowling, and football. She was excited. I assumed with an element of self delusion that she would forget the exact details and the schedule could be diluted on the day. Someone once told me to never assume anything and sure enough she remembered the exact sequence of events including the toasted cheese sandwich at the local Subway.

Fortunately, the day was warm and gloriously sunny when I picked them up from their harassed father to set out on the dog walking element.

As always the imaginary dinosaurs (3) and imaginary Labradors (5) accompanied us and our (real) dog Millie seemed unconcerned about having to share the boot area with the additional livestock.

The walk went well apart from momentarily losing contact with my grandson followed immediately by a moment of brief anxiety when I thought he had vanished over the edge of the rock outcrop.

After the walk we went home to collect my wife and have an unscheduled breakfast. Swimming was largely enjoyable; more so because it was free and not too busy. Part of the entertainment was me, playing the role of a deranged ogre, chasing both grandchildren around the pool who then attack me, knock me over in a storm of water and shrieks; this watched by my wife, three dinosaurs, five dogs and a pool attendant with pursed lips, mentally flicking through the ‘rules of the pool’ manual.

Then the five year old whom I have taught to swim (after a fashion) decided to teach the 4 year old. The coaching technique was more SS than Dale Carnegie with failure rewarded by a clout from her, tears from him and a sharp intake of breath from the dinosaurs sat in a row on the spectator’s benches.

With the teaching methods and hurt feelings smoothed out we had a session of jumping into the pool. Normally there is only the granddaughter and involves lifting her out of the water onto the side of the pool and catching her as she jumps to shouts of ‘Again Grandpa, again!’ It is physically draining. On this day there are two children; doubly draining. We are performing this in front of a sign specifically forbidding jumping and most fun things. The pool attendant is about to lose it but the session has ended and its time to leave.

After the swimming we head towards the local bowling alley via the Subway sandwich shop. The granddaughter loves the toasted cheese open sandwiches, so on her recommendation my wife and I have the same. They taste like edible plastic carrier bags melted onto on plasterboard. The kids wash this unappetising snack down with some sort of coloured rocket fuel.

Discussions at the table remind me of watching Gorbachov and his interpreter negotiating nuclear arms reduction treaty. The 4 year old grandson, his hearing and speech affected by his grommets falling out of place ‘Я могу выпить просьба дед?

Me: ‘Eh?’ my hearing is not that much better.

My wife: ‘what did he say?’

His big sister and personal interpreter with a very serious face: ‘He says if you remove your missiles from Turkey he will move his back to the Urals’ (No, only joking he actually said ‘Can I have a drink please Grandpa?’)

The bowling alley is bijou but has all the usual electronic keyboards and screens and vending machines that dispense very small sweets for large amounts of money.

Surprisingly, the 4 year old manages not to trap his fingers between the balls as they emerge from the contraption that returns the balls. The appearance of some small friends in the aisle next to us combined the effect of the Subway rocket fuel concoction leads to a small but friendly skirmish.

Back home a pre-recorded film ‘James and the Giant Peach’ buys me a little time to have a furtive kip only to be rudely nudged awake by the four year old who wants to play football.

There is no escape.

His sister has that scrunched up serious ‘you promised’ look on her face.

The Husband is so bloody busy that he doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. He’s stacked out with design work for at least the next six months.  He may be bloody busy but he’s got a twinkle in his eye again.

Someone else who is twinkling at the moment is The 5 Year Old.  Firstly, she got a glowing report at parent’s evening last week and, secondly, managed to swim a length of the pool without armbands … thanks to Gramps and his swimming lessons! We go to Italy during Spring Break so it will be nice to see her swimming unaided.

Our Landlord wants to sell the house, so in 4 months we will be moving AGAIN, this time to a house where we will be staying for a looooong time. I am planning a huge clutter cull which means I’ll be spending hours uploading things onto ebay.

First thing that might go on ebay is The Car which is still very poorly … we are having to charge the battery before any trips and then wait for the engine to cut out long after the keys have been taken out of the ignition.    

I’m quite enjoying walking to school and work … when it’s not raining.  The children, however, are losing their enthusiasm for walking to school …

… particularly The 4 year old who has fully recovered from the chicken pox but is deaf again.  He had grommets fitted last year and they fell out into his ear canal just after Christmas.  Now it seems they have somehow made their way back to where they were but he can’t hear anything.  I find myself talking to him both loud and slowly.  The next step is a hearing test to confirm what we already know and then I imagine some sort of operation to either replace or correct his grommets.  In the meantime he has to struggle on in his own little hard of hearing bubble. 

The Dog hasn’t been sick recently and seems to have stopped moulting, which is a vast improvement on recent months.

Me?  I’m looking forward to Easter.  We’re going up to Scotland for Easter where we will be doing our family egg roll.  I have been practicing and think that I stand a chance of bringing the Egg Rolling Championship Cup home.  Who am I kidding? 

I am feeling the need for a wee blogoliday to do some reading in the bath.  I’m currently reading Half of a Yellow Sun. It’s the sort of book that I can’t put down and I don’t want it to end. 

I also need to catch up on lots of little jobs; I have some writing commitments that have fallen by the wayside but I need to catch up on self preservation mainly … if you could see my unruly eyebrows you’d be worried. 

Let’s not speak of any other ‘hairy’ areas.

So I shall see you all next week.  Have a good weekend people!

Poppy was our last family dog and the one I was most attached to. We had to have her put to sleep in Spain. I was inconsolable for days.

We had collected Poppy, a handsome Springer Spaniel, from a house in Huddersfield that was a semi-detached replica of Cold Comfort Farm, thus saving her from the hardship of the life of a gun dog. You and your step-brother sat in the back with Poppy in a cardboard box with your step-mother and I in the front of our car took her home to a life of privilege and comfort.

I remember thinking that our garden was totally enclosed with fences and hedges and that escape would not be possible. I was soon proved wrong when I heard the neighbour (whom I had never met but was about to be, disastrously, acquainted with) at the bottom of the garden shooing Poppy back into our garden where she had deposited a poo on the lawn. I instantly saw the problem; the foliage of the tall beech hedge that formed the boundary between our gardens started from about a foot from the ground leaving gaps which Poppy could easily slip through. The problem would be easily resolved with some chicken wire, staples and a hammer.

Later, on this hot sunny day, armed with the requisite materials and tools I started crawling along the narrow space, carpeted with dead leaves and twigs, between the back of the flowerbed and the bottom of the hedge. As I settled, stretched out full length, about to start my fencing I noticed, to my consternation, the neighbour whom I had never seen but earlier heard, walking across her lawn towards the sun lounger that stood a few yards from me.

Somehow I missed the critical moment when I could have made some sort of greeting and used the opportunity to explain what I was about and avoiding any potential embarrassment.

Perhaps it was the bikini clad figure, but for some reason the connection between my brain and my mouth had momentarily failed. My mouth felt like a deflated rubber dingy, reminding me of the traumatic occasion when I briefly surfaced during a major lung operation and similarly found myself unable to verbalise my thoughts. This failure transformed my situation from that of a harmless DIY neighbour installing some wire fencing to a peeping tom.

I was mortified. Any attempt to extricate myself would not be discrete; would involve dragging my overweight body down the length of the hedge accompanied by a great deal of rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs. My neighbour, hearing the commotion, would break off from reading her novel, turn and see a dirty old man, shriek and run to her house.

With my luck her husband would be an amateur cage wrestler.

Time slowly passed with my growing anxiety heightened by the distant wail of police sirens somewhere across the city. I heard my wife calling for me to come to lunch reminding me that I was hungry and hoping that my rumbling stomach would not draw attention.

Thankfully this all happened before mobile phones became widespread. My ordeal ended when my neighbour, hearing her phone ring in her house set off down her garden leaving me to scramble through the flowerbed and head towards my house to face a cold lunch and my wife’s questions about where I had been, why I had twigs hanging from my clothes and how I needed my hearing tested

After the interrogation by the receptionist as to whether or not I am sixty years old, a doubt that secretly pleases me, we are given a wrist band which the granddaughter takes to a screen in the wall to receive the code number of the locker we have been allocated.

We always share the same family cubicle in the communal changing rooms and chat while changing into our respective swim wear. The conversation has a decidedly schizophrenic flavour. One minute I am discussing the planet and stars with a teenager then it lurches to a 30 year old telling me how untidy her mother is (this to deflect my criticism of the way she throws her clothes in a heap on the floor), followed by a five year old earnestly explaining how she has brought her imaginary dogs and dinosaurs with her to the pool.

Once in the pool she remains in the role of the 5 year old where I teach her to swim and I am taught how to catch a miniature football. We have the same coaching methods which involve a lot of shouting insults and encouragement under the gaze of five Labradors and three Dinosaurs, which I understand watch from the pool edge.

Next time the smug receptionist will be told; 1 Adult over 60, 1 five year old child, 5 Labradors and 3 dinosaurs. Please.

The swimming is progressing well. She can swim almost a breadth of the pool, albeit at a forty five degree angle in the water.

As I stand over her giving noisy support I recall the time I taught her mother, a little older at the time. I had given her the goal of swimming a whole length. Approaching the final few yards, watched by her proud father and encouraged by shouts of encouragement and probably insults she slowly submerged. I remember the difficult decision; to stop her before she drowned or wait until she had succeeded by touching the end of the pool then perform a rescue and mouth to mouth resuscitation.

A mental note has been made not to do this with my granddaughter; her colourful description of such unconventional coaching methods will result in an equally colourful phone call from her parents.

We are always the last to be herded from the pool by the earnest attendants (Herded being the operative word in view of my granddaughters imaginary pets) then, after a hot shower we continue our bizarre conversations in the family changing room.

Later, as I drive away after delivering my slightly damp and shiny granddaughter with her relieved parents I am sure I can feel the warm breath of the three dinosaurs that are sat in a row on the back seat.

My Uncle bought him a new touch screen phone which means it’s even easier for him to ring me from his pocket on car journeys. Let’s hope he doesn’t ring me accidentally from the motorway services toilet like he did once before, luckily it was only a wee, but a loud one all the same.

He is looking after the kids for a day during half term and is taking them swimming. He was excited when he realised that due to his new OAP status he can swim for free. Then there are all those pensioner special pub lunches, reduced train travel and a bus pass. The world is his OAP oyster.

The cake was made by Teacher Friend Mother of 3. She is a superstar. We collected it the day before the party and it sat overnight in our dining room. How the 4 year old held himself back from turning ‘Stealth Boy’ and raiding those sweets I’ll never know. There was a moment shortly before the party when he disappeared and was found staring longingly at the cake, but who could blame him?

My sister bought two huge helium balloons which were, apparently, f*cking expensive rather more expensive than she’d thought they’d be. It turns out that the ‘6′ balloon has a tag at the top end so that it can be flipped and used as a’9′.

The consensus amongst the Scottish attendees was that the helium should be drained and the balloons kept in a safe place until my Dad’s 90th.

Being half Scottish I kind of agree, although not until we’ve used it for the 5 year old’s next birthday …

I’ve had 6 hours sleep in 48 hours. I must have had a temperature because when I did sleep I dreamt I was sat in a hospital waiting room with the dog for company waiting for someone to come and tell me that my legs weren’t going to drop off.

I have lots of posts lined up in my head, but they need someone with a brain to get them ready to post. Today I am not that person. Today I am Working Zombie Lady with a hint of chocolate biscuit.

Excuses over.  I bring you a post from last year … which, yes, is cheating … I like to call it recycling. Enjoy.

The virtual burglar pays a visit … in my head

Occasionally I have irrational thoughts. For instance;

What if a burglar were to break into the house in the middle of the night?

Last week I gave it too much thought, it went a little something like this;

So, the burglar breaks in. I don’t know how, he just does OK?

The dog who is having one of those dreams where she’s running in the park stirs. She doesn’t bark. Instead she vomits on the burglar’s shoes and proceeds to wag her tail and lick him. She welcomes him into our home. Not only has she been sick but earlier in the evening she was cleaning her arse with that tongue.

He fumbles to switch on his torch and surveys the kitchen for car keys to the shiny motor on the drive. Plates are piled high on the work surface. Don’t these people have a dishwasher? No, not unless you count me and the husband.

His torch light falls upon a picture on a pinboard of a gay couple. One of them is dressed as Adam Ant, the other is dressed as himself and has a fetching moustache. This picture is me (Magnum PI) and the husband (Adam Ant) at my sisters 40th birthday party. Note the chest hair (For the record and those of you who were wondering … this is not my own chest hair).

There’s no hope of finding keys amongst the clutter. He locates a handbag on the worktop and opens it. He takes out the contents looking for a purse; a box of raisins, a soggy tissue, a broken Cinderella necklace, a sock, a notebook with extensive Disney notes … a purse with a faulty zip, several receipts for the Co-op and just three ten pence pieces.

He finds a mobile phone right at the bottom of the handbag, hiding. Not the latest model but worth a bob or two. The screen flashes bright. A picture of two small children wearing underpants on their heads greets him. Oh my god, what kinds of people are parenting these children? I believe in nature over nurture … my children are truly bonkers, is that really my fault? … Ahem.

He decides to venture into the living room to check out the electrical goods. Suddenly there is a piercing shriek. He stops dead in his tracks, terrified that there is a beast upstairs. The 4 year old is having night terrors again.

In his panic to leave the house he goes into the downstairs toilet and is met a child’s floater bobbing alone. “Of course I flushed the toilet Mummy”

Recoiling in horror and running back towards the door he stands on a toy fire engine and falls to the floor crashing into the intricate marble run of the previous day.

As he crawls to his knees he kneels on a piece of Lego. OH THE PAIN! For those of you not accustomed to the pain a piece of Lego can cause when kneeled upon, I have confirmed, after a lengthy conversation with the husband, that is equal to standing on an upturned plug.

Clutching his knee he notices some car keys hanging out of a coat pocket in the hall. Bingo!

Relieved to be leaving the house of horrors he realises that the keys are not for the shiny motor, they are indeed for the rusty, dusty old motor parked beside it.

He sits in the car, the first thing to hit him is the lingering smell of wet dog. He puts the key in the ignition. The car stereo signals its awakening with a loud rasping farting noise and The Wind in The Willows blares out of the speakers. The faulty hand brake alarm starts and the petrol gauge is glowing on empty.

What burglar, in his right mind would pick on us?!