Posts Tagged dads
OK, so everyone’s writing about Maggie. I could – and possibly should – be writing about the kids vomiting or driving my wife insane or refusing to eat my scrambled eggs because I milk them. But hell, it’s been on my mind non stop.Maggie came from Grantham. I know that town. I know that grocer’s shop. And she has, one way and another, had a profound effect on my life and my relationship with my own parents.
My mother was raised in a little village in the Lincolnshire countryside a few miles from Grantham and she went to Kesteven and Grantham Girls School just like Margaret Hilda Roberts had done many years before her. She may well hate me for this, her politics being very far removed from Maggie’s, but it seems the school specialises in turning out strong, determined and successful women. Or maybe it was the town rather than the school. It’s the sort of place your work very hard to make sure you leave.
Stuck in the middle of nowhere, not even on the M1, it was the sort of place that struck me as being quintessentially British. Market at the weekend. Department stores and a church spire that dominated it. Pubs that may well have been excellent but that called last orders bang on time. Thatcher hated football fans but this didn’t come from having them charge past the Grocer’s in their hobnail boots every other Saturday. If you wanted to watch sport in that area then village cricket was your best bet.
We went up to stay with my Mum’s Mum every summer. Grantham is where I learned to swim, despite coming from a town by the sea. Why? Because after going to Granddad’s allotment and running through the spinney and playing cow-pat football there was nothing much left to do. My dad took us swimming to the Grantham baths as often as he could. Every time we’d drive by the Grocer’s shop. By then Maggie wasn’t in it. She was running the country.
My last ever visit to Grantham summed the place up perfectly. It was around the time that Converse All Star were trendy the first time and I was in the market for a new pair. I’d saved pocket and paper round money and my Gran had given me some extra. I went excitedly to the sports shop in Grantham. No trainers, especially not trendy ones. Just good old fashioned sports equipment. It was like there was a sign on the wall that read “There’ll be none of your poncey American canvas boots here m’duck.”
At the start of her first term I knew nothing about her politics or unions. I had watched the Falklands on telly – we all had – and later the miners strike. Teenaged me felt sorry for the miners but had a suspicion that Arthur Scargill was a wanker. Adult me still does.
But then, in her autumnal Prime Ministerial years she cast a shadow greater than any time we had driven past the out of commission Grocer’s. When I was 17 my parents divorced. Interest rates shot up. First 11% then 14%. Then 15%. Or as my dad remembers them ‘fucking expensive’. We had stayed with dad – I suppose he became an early SAHD – but though this was the right thing at the time emotionally it may not have been financially. The rates were crippling his business and ability to pay the mortgage. Then, just to really shit on our fireworks, she introduced the Poll Tax and suddenly anything I wasn’t giving in keep went to local government. We needed to take in a lodger and we still came within weeks of being repossessed. Neither Dad or I claimed a penny in benefit. Think on that when the Tories claim they support small business and strivers.
One of our lodgers was Patrick*. Short, Scottish and working class he claimed to be a Rangers fan from Edinburgh. In due course he would rip off a local pub and do a runner but he always paid us on time to the penny. One day, before he ripped the pub off, I went to work and, in the afternoon Carol started crying. Carol was the 30 year old Assistant Manager who dressed like a 50 year old and idolised Thatcher like I idolise Brighton and Hove Albion. The old hag had resigned. That’s Thatcher, not Carol. I could barely conceal my glee. When I got home me and Dad and Patrick were in the kitchen. “Terrible fuckin’ shame eh?” said Patrick. Then we opened a bottle of whisky. When it was gone Dad went out and got another. We partied like it was 1999, astonishing since it was only 1990.
Yesterday she died. I felt neither sadness nor celebration. Maybe it’s because I consider dancing on an old lady’s grave distasteful. Maybe it’s because as I’ve grown older I’ve moved far more to the centre. Or perhaps it was because she has left us a legacy that won’t be talked about in the countless obituaries. Me and my Dad. A bond that can never be broken, strengthened, as they often are, in adversity.
*Not his real name. Obvs.
All that worrying is over and the recovery is very nearly too. OK, at the moment I couldn’t run the 100 metre sprint or dance the nutcracker (sorry) but then I couldn’t anyway.
My op is over and apparently successful and I am back at work. All those misnomers (yes of course I knew it was my testicles that were being operated on and not my, ahem, wanger but nob gags are funnier) are done. Last week I went to a clinic and under local anaesthitic my vasa deferentia were severed. To prepare for this I had to remove my genital hair ‘using cream’. After my last post mentioning this I was helpfully sent this by a (very nice) tweep. Luckily Mrs Slightlysuburban had got me some high class cream from, er, Avon. It stung a bit but did the job. Hardly blogworthy.
I was awake the whole time and, a couple of sharp scratches when the local went in aside, it was painless. Just me, an elderly female nurse who must have seen more cocks that Jordan and my friendly neighbourhood conker surgeon. She was having problems getting rid of a wasp’s nest in her neighbours garden and he was having a BBQ that night. I know this because they were discussing it while I was being ‘done’. Also he had an ipod playing on speakers. It was Oasis. I suspect actually they have to choose the playlist rather carefully. Here’s what they couldn’t play:
- Who’s Sorry Now by Connie Francis
- Great Balls Of Fire by Jerry Lee Lewis
- Rock and a Hard Place by The Rolling Stones
- French Kiss by Lil Louis (you may have to have been in to house music in the late 80s to get this)
- Anything by the Scissor Sisters
- Anything by Willie Nelson
and probably a few more.
Afterwards my wife drove me straight home. The local was still working, it was a lovely day and I sat in the garden and read and took paracetamol before it started hurting just like the specialist said. I read 3 whole chapters of Paul Theroux and, as I had no sun cream on, went back inside and lolled on the sofa. Two hours later I needed a wee. When I tried to get up I nearly screamed the house down.
I was signed off for a week (though I managed to write one blog post and talk an enormous amount of bollocks on Twitter) and the recovery got worse before it got better. Luckily I heeded some advice I’d had and had plenty of paracetamol and clean, very tight underwear to hand. Right now it barely hurts at all. I’m hoping I’m out of the woods.
I received an enormous amount of support. To those of you who’d been there, done that, thanks and to the one who is about to, good luck. It is really not that bad. The op certainly is painless and the bruises when they come are at least amusing and spectacular.
My greatest feet was avoiding Baby’s flailing arms and legs and her special flying headbutt move. As I couldn’t move for part of the time this partly consisted of going everywhere with a cushion on my goolies.
I shall have no more children. They make it quite clear it’s irreversible. This had the mawkish effect of making me regard my children in a new light while I was laid up. I’m so proud of them. My funny, caring arty Boy and my lethal, sporty, noisy whirlwind Baby. They’re perfect and they cannot be replaced. My family is complete.
The final thing of note is that I am not technically all clear for another 16 weeks so the above is subject to Mrs SSD remembering her pills and me ‘getting the urge’ again (and that urge not to be to lie down with a paracetamol and some rum). Still, the rough time of when we should be all clear is established. Mainly because I have written ‘have a wank’ on the calendar. Since Boy can now read I’m about to change it to ‘WALK’. But I’ll know what it means.
This morning Baby woke up at 5.30. We tried various tactics to get her to go back to sleep but it wasn’t happening and at 5.50 I called it and brought her down. Judge me if you want but at that time in the morning I need a vat of coffee and I need to laze on the sofa. The electronic baby sitter is called in to early use. It’s that or vaguely hoping she’s learned how to open the fridge make her breakfast and eat it in a mood of silent contemplation. Like a nun only with Coco Pops skillz.
Now I know what you are thinking. Ah! Cbeebies! I wish. I really fucking wish.
Boy was brought up on CBeebies because we were good and diligent middle class parents who wanted our child to learn to talk by watching a nocturnal blue sponge snog a doll while an OCD thing collected and cleaned stones, some pre-school punks took their trousers off and no-one at all, narrator apart, actually send anything intelligible. He progressed on to Show Me Show which I like purely for the things that Pui dressed as the Grand Old Duke of York did to my brain given I’d watched her earlier, slightly more risqué acting roles. Eventually, luckily before Mr Bloom really came out, but too late to avoid 3rd and Bird (of which more later) Boy considered CBeebies ‘too baby-ish’ and moved on to Nick Jr. I know the irony.
Then Baby arrived.
Baby absorbed Nick Jr by osmosis. Peppa Pig, in particular, became a kind of 5 minute subliminal advert. Nick Jr was all she knew as a small one, television wise and so, when Baby is got up in the early hours it is Nick she wants. She used to just shout “PIG!” but has at least progressed on to “Daddy, Pig please”, but neither command is asking for crispy bacon. She wants Peppa.
That early however the Pig episodes are the bread to a Thomas the Tank Engine sandwich. This is less popular with her but heaven forbid you should touch that dial because then YOU MIGHT NOT SWITCH IT BACK OVER AGAIN. Ever wondered why Ringo Starr was a drummer? Watch Thomas the Fucking Tank Engine. The lazy scouse drawl grates on you after about 5 seconds and by the end of the episode you will want to put a set of drums through the screen. Don’t. These you will need for later.
Pig is next. Much has been written about Peppa. Boy and Baby both adore it though, of course, as a portrayal of family life it’s about as accurate as East Enders is a portrayal of the goings on at Eton. It snows in winter and is sunny in summer yet there is always a muddy puddle around to jump in. Learning to ice skate takes 5 minutes. There are no empty Smirnoff Ice bottles and used condoms in the playground bit of the park and ONLY Peppa and her friends go there. There is only one road in and out of Peppa Pig land and it never has any traffic. Pre-school is sometimes real school and it comes with no set dates, no school run and no OFSTED reports. No one needs to do meal planning – it’s spaghetti every night. Both children drop off to sleep with just a song or a story and if they’re sick, Dr Brown Bear gives them some foul tasting medicine (which they take without complaint) and it cures them almost instantly.
Most of all, just over the next hill are Grandpa Pig and Granny Pig and whenever it gets too much they come and babysit or have the children over to stay or take them out on their boat or let them play in their, frankly humungous garden. They have an orchard. A boat. They have a telescope for star gazing. I bet Grandpa pig could even rustle up a fun fair at the drop of a hat. Grandpa Pig, I suspect of being a greedy baby-boomer cunt who bought his house and orchard for tuppence back in the day and is now a multi-millionaire property owner with a free bus pass.
Daddy Pig I like however. He barbeques, works in an office and plays football. He’s enormously fat but he’s a hands on dad with a sense of humour and a total inability to read maps. He’s a lot like me. I have Dad empathy with Daddy Pig and I most admire his ability to make light of semi-disasters where I would be contemplating a complete meltdown. For this reason he’s my favourite kids TV character and he just about saves Peppa Pig from it’s socially unrealistic torpor.
Anyway, Pig finished and The Bopps came on. This is where you will need the drums you held back earlier because they WILL have you throwing stuff at the telly. Imagine a pair of whacky school teachers singing lyrics about squirrels to fourth rate indie while wearing comedy Sgt Pepper outfits and all the time, gap toothed 7 year olds in Boden dance round them. The temptation not to scream OH JUST FUCK OFF is immense. It is the low-lite of my morning. The only thing – only thing – that keeps me in check when The Bopps appear is knowing that if I switch to CBeebies I risk an encounter with 3rd and Bird.
3rd and Bird is the worst programme ever made and just typing it has made my blood boil. Essentially some cartoon / puppet (I never worked out which) birds live in a tree and do utterly meaningless stuff IN SONG. Yes it’s an avian musical and so horrific is the music that it makes Lloyd-Webber look like Bach, Mozart, Miles Davis and John Lennon combined. I have not adequate words to describe it beyond this and, if I carry on with this rant much longer I’ll burst a blood vessel so I’ll leave you with the intro so you can see for yourself. DO NOT watch this if you are currently in a good mood or you value your laptop screen.
What’s your worst or even favourite kids show? I suspect I know @motherventing ‘s answer……..
Today we were pushed for time. I am a bit of a punctuality freak. Actually that’s not true, I’m a ‘be ridiculously early because the worst will always happen’ freak. Which just makes me a freak really. Here’s some things I do which are stupid but which I feel I need to do as a matter of course as regards time.
If I am taking a flight and I am required to check in 2 hours before departure I like to aim to arrive at the airport about 2 and a half hours before departure. On my own this is fine. I have travelled by air by myself a great deal and this to me means less chance of missing the flight, less time in a check-in queue and more time in the coffee shop / bar (depending on time of day) pre-flight. Win / win. But add an easily bored wife and children in to the mix and the stress that is involved in getting anywhere near that early arrival target when you have two little people to pack and organise and I can see it’s less than ideal.
I also like to leave in the morning so I arrive at the station about 20 minutes before my train to work is due. This is just because. Just because I’m a panicky idiot who’s sacrificing 15 minutes extra sleep over the possibility that something might prevent me getting my train if I leave any later. Like tripping over a warthog on the walk. Like needing a ticket and being in a queue for the ticket machine behind 40 Japanese tourists with limited ticket buying skillz. Like someone moved the station.
And then there’s the lunch bookings at local restaurants which I insist we must be early for because otherwise they will give the table away to someone else and the children will cry and no other restaurant will take us and we’ll starve and die. Just reading that makes me feel a bit nuts.
So where was I? Ah yes. This morning. I work from home once a week and when I do then I am in charge of the school run. As you can imagine I am normally one of the first parents to arrive in the playground. However, today stuff happened. Or rather it did last night. Boy had a nightmare and got up for a very long time and then would only go back to sleep in our bed, relegating yours truly to the sofa. This made him tired. And so, at 8 o’clock this morning he did Not Want To Wake Up. The doors to Red Class open at 8.50 and close at 8.55. The rational human being would have seen this as plenty of time. Me? I was already thinking of what I could say at his exclusion hearing when he was booted out for arriving at 8.56 and the wife and I were thrown in clink by Social Services and branded with Bad Parent tattoos. Forever.
When he finally got out of bed he did not want his breakfast. When he finally ate his breakfast he did not want to put his uniform on. And so on and so on.
My approach to dealing with this is, by my own admission, pathetic. It’s all stick and no carrot. I go for it in the style of the ignorant Touriste Anglaise. Basically I repeat myself only slightly louder.
Me: Put your uniform on.
Me: PUT YOUR UNIFORM ON
Boy: *ignores me*
At this point the wife, who also has to be somewhere, always cuts in and introduces the carrot. Meal eating / dressing or whatever else are suddenly turned in to a fun game which the Boy miraculously excels at. I am reduced to parenting pondlife. And the task is achieved. She did this again this morning and went from hunger strike / uniform refusal to a ready Boy in 5 minutes.
I wish I could do this. I know what I do is wrong. But I’m not really thinking about the correct way to parent. I’m thinking of the terrible consequences of being a minute late for school. I am not, remotely, thinking straight. I am just lucky my wife thinks differently.
Writing this has helped a bit I think. It’s helped to at least understand that my punctuality obsession is a bit weird and not entirely helpful. So maybe next time I have to be somewhere by a set time I should read this back to myself first. Just as long as, y’know, I leave enough time to read it in. Perhaps I ought to start an hour or so ahead just in case.
(In case you were wondering we made it to school on time)
So last week I did indeed go to the GP and set in place the steps to get a vasectomy on the NHS
*hides every machete in England*
It was a normal-ish chat, except for the part where she again asked me if I was sure ‘just in case the worst should happen’, but she soon began the referral process. This involved one thing I was a little surprised about. Before anyone was giving me the snip my wife had to ring the GP and confirm she agrees with the decision. Yes, I need my wife’s permission to have my joystick amended.
Now let’s stop and think what would happen if this was the other way round. For comic effect let’s do so in a much more unenlightened era.
*puts on a large brain altering hat that gives the wearer the ability to think only in stereotypes*
*changes location and date to 1970s London*
Scene 1: A front room in a terraced house in black and white. Terry is having a Watneys Red Barrel. Enter Sheila from stage left.
S: Darling, you know we’ve talked about not having any more kids…
T: Fackin’ ‘ell shaat up. I’m tryna watch 3-2-1
S: Well I really think you ought to consider having a vasectomy
T: Fack off. Get my nob snipped? No fackin chance. Why don’t you get yer tubes done? (studies Dusty Bin)
S: Well, er, ok, if I must…..
Scene 2: At the GPs
Local GP: Sheila, before I refer you there’s just one thing, you’ll need to get Terry to call me and say he agrees to the process.
(Sheila rolls eyes and trembles a bit).
Scene 3: Back at the black and white terrace, 3 days later.
S: Er, Terry? Darling? Have you rung the doctor’s to talk about my surgery yet?
T: Have I fackin’ what? Later! I’m watching The Professionals. (whistles The Professionals theme tune)
Sheila storms out and commences writing a long letter to The Guardian.
Scene 4: The Offices of The Guardian on Fleet Street. Enter Women’s Affairs Editor and Editor. Editor is clutching a glass of scotch and smoking Rothmans.
WAE: This letter! Have you seen it? Men have to agree before a woman can be sterilized! Men! Agreeing! Other stuff requiring an exclamation mark! It’s like we never burned our bras!
Ed: (wearily) OK give me 500 words by tonight (takes huge drag on Rothmans and wonders how it was he got here)
Scene 5: A sped up montage is shown of the article causing outrage throughout liberal Britain. Campaigns are started. GP’s surgery’s are stormed. Questions are asked in parliament. Muesli is spilled on sandals. A bra is burned in arty slo-motion which somewhat contradicts the sped up nature of the montage.
Scene 6: Back at the black and white terrace 5 weeks later.
S: Terry? Love? Have you phoned the doctor?
T: Fack off! I’m watching The Sweeney. (Terry opens another can of Watneys Red Barrel).
Fade to grey.
*takes off stereotype hat*
So this from parentdish dropped in to my Twitter time line via DaddyNatal today. You will have to take as read that I understand that …
- Many of my readers are mums and
- It’s international women’s day
…when I say that I have never read such an irritating piece of claptrap in all my days.
Apparently all dads are useless in the delivery room. Apparently we shouldn’t be allowed near it because we all walk in to televisions and knock ourselves out or fill birth pools with freezing cold water. All of us. Without exception.
Well I didn’t. I was present throughout most of Boy’s birth and at no point did I scoff a burger, glare at the doctor or fall asleep. I have already posted Baby’s birth story. My wife ordered me out. I went out. My wife ordered me back in. I went back in again. Simpls. We’re not all Fred Fuckin’ Flintstone.
But there is a far more disturbing element to the post. You see what women really need is a doula (it says there). You know those fantastically EXPENSIVE PRIVATE BIRTH PARTNERS you can hire from £350 to £1000 (according to http://www.nurturingbirth.co.uk/doula_costs.html )
Yes you read that right. £350 to £1000. On top of all the extra shit you had to buy, getting the nursery ready, car seat, travel system, baby clothes that last 3 months, monitor etc etc, you, yes you scared first time middle class parent can part with a sizeable chunk of cash to not have your husband / partner there. You remember him don’t you? The guy who’s going to have half DNA shares in the baby? Who you’ll shortly want to take time off work and help with nappies and feed expressed breast milk. You’ll want him to do all that but you also want him replaced with a stranger and a sizeable overdraft during the actual birth? Really?
You’ll note the use of middle-class there. I’ll tell you who a doula isn’t an option for and that’s a poor 18-year-old soon to be single mum from a sink estate. The guy who impregnated her isn’t going to be doing any burger eating or falling asleep (at least not in the delivery room). He’s not going to be involved in the baby’s life at all. And the girl he’s left impregnated is now alone and shit, shit scared.
So here’s an idea. If you really care about empowering women instead of laughing at loving husbands (and writing thinly veiled doula sales articles on websites) who are actually being rubbish because they’re TERRIFIED why not volunteer at your local maternity unit FOR FREE and help out girls who are a bit less fortunate than yourself in the husband department.
Disclaimer 1: This is my third self-imposed challenge post – I am not allowed to swear. Given the subject matter this is going to be a real challenge.
Disclaimer 2: Someone once said sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. It isn’t. Toilet humour is. I know what follows is neither big, clever or original but my Dad’s a carry on addict and I raised myself on Viz so I’m afraid you’re stuck with it. There is a sort of serious point I promise.
This Sunday Mrs S was running a nearly new sale. She was, in truth, carrying a back problem. The same back problem that lead me to have to take a couple of days off work because she could not pick up Baby. Or Baby’s vomit. Yes, she had had a dodgy tummy and 16 month olds do not know how to use the smallest room when they need to produce pavement pizza. I had been following her round with a roll of Plenty and a worried look for a couple of days, praying that the initial indication of a problem, round the back did not reoccur. This started on the Thursday and by Sunday she was all better and we were climbing the walls with cabin fever. So while Mrs S did her sale I took advantage of some truly lovely weather and took the kids out for the day.
First we went to the Brighton Wheel. This was a photo op as we also had the class mascot, Barney Bear, with us and he comes with a diary and a requirement to fill it with photos. Then we went to the Pier for some real fun. Suddenly it was lunchtime. I was in the mood for fish and chips but Boy insisted on Giraffe. Now from the pier to Giraffe is about a 10 minute walk for an adult but add in a buggy and a 5-year-old and its nearer 20. At 8 minutes and 34 seconds Boy decided he needed to point Percy at the porcelain. We ran. We just made it to Giraffe. The running had sent Baby to sleep in the buggy and now I had a problem. Boy will not go to the water closet by himself. I either had to make him before he wet his clothes or wake Baby up and carry her with us. The waitress (and this is why I am pimping them by name) took over and led him to the disabled loo and kept watch on the door. So Giraffe Brighton, thank you for being so child friendly.
However while Boy was doing his business I started worrying. He was now fine. I, though, had spent the early part of the morning downing orange juice and espresso and, just like my little charges I had not been before we left. Baby had a nappy. Boy was sorting himself out. But, If I needed to paint the town yellow I would once again have to abandon the children. This was clearly not an option. I was going to have to hold back the Yellow River with leg crossing and Confucian muscle control. And I’d just ordered drinks.
Luckily I have previous in this area. Between cricket tours, broken train toilets on the way back from away games and the time I seriously misjudged the train queue size coming back from Twickers I am a bit of an expert at holding in number ones. But something much worse was now lurking at the bottom of the cesspit that is my mind. The previous night we’d had a Chinese from a local takeaway. It does fantastic aromatic duck which is why we use them but I’m not sure about the quality of the rest of it. If I suddenly needed to drop the kids off at the pool I was going to be in for a whole heap of embarrassment. If I did suffer revenge of the takeaway it was likely to come on swiftly and with a great deal more chance of making the gravy than bangers and mash.
An outwardly pleasant meal was becoming clouded by my inner terror. As the real bangers turned up for Boy I cut them up at the speed of lightning and willed him to wolf them. I demolished my burger in about 3 bites. Nothing was actually happening in the bladder or tummy department but I was metaphorically bricking it. The mains were cleared but of course, the reason Boy had spurned my Fish n Chips was because he wanted brownies. The food variety. We had to order pudding.
At this point Baby woke up. Baby always wakes up in time for pudding. It’s a girl reflex that I am mildly jealous of. She had missed mains and was currently spurning the emergency pouch. Her Sunday lunch this week was going to consist solely of biscotti and spare chocolate from mine and boy’s puddings. Luckily there was no NWO this time to judge my utterly rubbish parenting. We wolfed our puds, paid our bill and headed for the bus home.
Now buses bounce. And when you have had lots of orange juice and espresso, and a bottle of Coke and have not wee-weed in a long while bouncing is something you don’t need. I started to have the same feeling I did that fateful day at Twickers. Mr Bladder wanted to go on holiday to Empty City. The last 10 minutes of the journey were utter hell. Boy was counting to 100 next to me. Baby was yelling at the top of her voice at everyone. And all I could think of was ‘how quickly can I make him walk when we get off? Will he be as understanding to me as I was to him?’We reached our stop after what seemed like several eternities. We legged it home at the double. I let in Boy, marched Baby in still strapped in to the buggy, ran upstairs and pulled the same face Santa does at the end of “Father Christmas Needs a Wee”.
It was, in truth a lovely day out which the kids thoroughly enjoyed. But due to my absolute inability to plan every aspect it nearly ended in disaster.
*sings* “Words, don’t come easy, to me…”
Actually that’s the problem. They do. But reading my blog back I’ve realised I use a few of them a bit more than I should. There’s ‘slightly’ obviously. Then there’s ‘gibbers’ but gibbers is my second favourite work after ‘foofaraw’ and only Louis de Bernieres can use that and get away with it. Then there’s a very naughty one beginning with ‘F’. I use that loads. Too much.
To explain. I hate swearing at or near children. It rubs me up totally the wrong way. I have, however, sworn at ours a few times when they’ve been really, really naughty and I’ve been really, really frustrated. I’ve regretted it instantly and continued to regret it for weeks but, as I wrote to another blogger, it was in lieu of a smack and verbal violence is just about preferable to physical violence. We also have little habits we need to cut out. Mine is ‘oh bugger’ while the wife refers to the toys on the floor as ‘piles of crap’. However, most of the time I make like Mary Poppins. Baby just had a poo that’s leaked out of her nappy? “Oh SUGAR”. Boy left crayons all over the kitchen floor? “Oh FIDDLESTICKS”.
My previous outlet for all my pent up swearyness was football as previously mentioned. I sit in a fairly rowdy bit and there’s a good deal of swearing all round. There are no young children around us and anyone taking a young child in to that arena really should know what to expect. There is a family stand where swearing is not tolerated. Should Boy ever want to start coming with me when he’s old enough I will have to move there and then I will be Football Poppins. “How did you not see that Linesman you MELON FARMER?”
But then I started blogging. When things annoyed me or occurred to me in everyday life I would start writing a post in my head. Silently. You can swear in your head. You can swear a very great deal indeed. And out it all pours on to my laptop sometime later. Now a good swear here and there for comic effect or to emphasise a point I maintain is fine but I’ve wondered if, at times, I’m gratuitous. I’ve decided to set myself a challenge to find out. My next 3 posts, after this one, should contain absolutely no swearing at all. And as it’s Saturday Caption Day tomorrow that’s really 2 posts. Should be a piece of piss. Ooops.