When did your child stop holding your hand?

I don't know, but I suspect if you have a girl, the answer is "never", if it's a boy if your lucky, may be six, probably younger...it's the first sign of independence. In The Boy's case, I think if my shaky memory is right it was thirteen. That's not entirely fair...it stopped when he was six and a half, but this weekend was very much a hand holding weekend.

We went off to our first Festival (a right of passage for both of us)...V Festival in Stafford...frustratingly we had not been able to get Chelmsford which is just fifteen miles away. The Boy's first concert was Turin Brakes at Somerset house when he was eight...the ideal first concert and they have remained a firm favourite ever since...perhaps the inspiration for him learning the guitar now. But the festival is all-new...as is camping.

Some observations:

1. Pissed blokes - drinking starts at 8 in the morning and carries on until well probably 3 or 4 in the morning. Unlike Brighton on a Saturday night, getting drunk doesn't involve starting a fight...boisterous behaviour, yes but generally very good humoured. The Pissed blokes category also includes pissed women...

2. Glamorous Girls...yes inspite of the fact that they're caked in mud up to their ears, haven't washed for three days, they still insist on applying the lippy and a short skirt to match their decorated wellies. There are also Glamorous Guys...they simply wear whatever is the Festival Fashion...but certainly undertsand the need for a 'look'

3. Pissing Blokes...men will urinate anywhere even without eight pints down their throat. Fences are a favourite, but even in the middle of the crowd listening to the Kooks, nothing gets in the way of a man desperate enough to get his willy out. Having said that, it is the age of equality, and girls now seem free to go anywhere...sometimes with a friend holding a jacket infront of their lady parts to protect their modesty (!!!), sometimes not...my favourite was the girl who pissed against a wall...I think that's an achievement fraught with risk?

4. Festival toilets...oh I just can't think of that. Ever, ever again.

5. After the inevitable rainstorms and the end of the festival, the long lines of bedraggled festival goers resemble nothing more than a line of refugees...we are only one band away from the end of humanity.

6. Possibly my second favourite companion was the worm that had burrowed into the mud on my shoes...it was that deep...and thought he had found a rich seam in which to live. I gave him freedom!

We managed to be front of stage for The Stranglers, and next to 'Young People' who had never heard of Squeeze...sacrilege. Generally we were front of stage for most acts...perhaps my competitive streak means that I have to, have to be at the front. Good for most groups...but The Stereophonics it all got a bit too boisterous...hence the mutual hand-holding...it'll never happen again!

For the record - Muse were stunning, as was Lenny Kravitz, Amy Winehouse won't be around in five years, Duffy is a belter and it was good to see old favourites like Echo and the Bunnymen.

How long are the summer holidays?/I wish I was a mother

I'm sure I'm not alone in remembering the long hot school holidays of our youth. Days of eternal sunshine matched with endless forays into distant countryside on cycles and interspersed with dips in ponds until chased away by irate farmers. So how come The Boy's summer holiday is going on for an eternity of rain, wind and a wintry chill. Rather than meet up with friends, he'd rather spend his days on MSN...or sometimes more productively learning the next Stereophonics song to play on his guitar. Vague thoughts of coming into town with me to go to the climbing centre are long gone.

It does appear though that some of the mothers at the school are better at putting their kids together, and I hear the odd tale of children going on holidays with other families. So it seems that my joint role as mother and father is not quite as successful as it should be. From my lop-sided viewpoint I think that women are much better at building networks for both themselves and their offspring. Last year it all seemed to work better with holidays with two grandmothers and friends leaving just a week or so of down time...this year an unrelenting disaster. :-(

Flash the cash

I was reliably informed last week that we live at one corner of the Wags Triangle...which consists of Loughton, Chigwell and our very own Buckhurst Hill. Its a bit like the Bermuda Triangle but with a bit more gold, fake tan and bleached blonde hair. However the more I think about the more a fairly unpalatable image of living in a WAG's triangle sticks in my head. May be a therapist can sort me out.

Living where we do is like living in a cartoon as everybody is stereotypical Essex...right down to the white stiletto boots and fish-wife language spoken in Harry Enfield's Loadsamoney voice....

...and in the same way he always had a wad of cash, so too is it here. Up at Woodford Green, there's a tatty little Italian restaurant that always has (literally) two Bentley Continental GT Convertibles parked outside as well as various Porsches, Range Rovers and sparkly cars. It only takes cash...no cheques, no credit or debit cards. And the same is true of The Player, a very swanky restaurant down Buckhurst Hill High Street. As I never carry more than £100 cash at a time, we'll never be welcomed with open arms.

Just up the road, is the brand spanking new RS Lounge club, bar and restaurant...I think they might take cards, but the VIP tables have a 'minimum spend policy'...the opening night, to which we were not invited included numerous actors and actresses (apologies to the PC set) from East Enders, Coronation Street and the like...I didn't know who they were until I googled them. Fortunately I knew the DJ - Boy George, and I hope he was doing it with a twist of post-modern irony!

We love Essex we do...but methinks the boy and I will always be outsiders...the tan painfully gained by lying flat out on the pebbles of Brighton Beach for five hours a couple of weeks ago seems to agree by having peeled itself from by back, my front, my legs and arms leaving me rather blotchy rather than the smooth orange that marks a true born and bred Essex boy.

The art of origami

Origami is a wonderful ancient art of turning something very dull into something remarkably interesting; something of little value into something that aesthetically is priceless. I wonder if all parents should learn origami so they can teach it to their offspring. I am sure I am not alone in thinking that if children knew the art of folding, then life would be less fraught. Examples where it could be applied are as follows:

towels in the bathroom - usually abandoned in the middle of the floor in a damp mound - but even when after some strong encouragement to put them on the rack, they still are just screwed up...evidently so long as they don't touch the floor then that is on a par with my own neatly folded and hung towel

laundry - extracted from the washing machine is either just stuffed into the airing cupboard...presumably on the assumption that because as it was washed on the reduced crease setting, then no matter how tightly crushed together the garments, they won't crease...or thrown over the rotating washing line (what is the proper word for one of those?). Last week saw the boy put his clothes on the line on Monday morning...well piled on top at least...and there they stayed through the rain on Monday night, into Tuesday and indeed Wednesday, before being hauled in on Thursday...and piled on top of the washing machine door. Well rinsed, and looking like crepe paper. I should mention that I was on strike, having been frustrated by the constant mess in his bedroom. Eventually I relented and folded the washing into the airing cupboard.

Ironed clothes...yes folded already...but regularly to be found scrunched up on the bedroom floor, or if they've made it into the drawer, stuffed in like a finger in a leaking dyke....


If all else fails there is always http://www.videojug.com/ where you can see a T-shirt being folded in a couple of seconds.

Can I have a pet?

We're currently being stalked by grasshoppers...I'm not sure what we've done to upset them. Last week a survey of the numerous spiderswebs which afflcit our house revealed a VERY LARGE bug with long feelers hiding on the coving of the sitting room. From where I stood, it could have been anything...but certainly didn't seem like the sort of creature that should be in joint residence with us.

Spiders are slightly different..they are just damned persistent, and it doesn't matter how often we sweep away the cobwebs, they just keep coming back...strange though, because there never seems to be any flies around for them to eat. But then perhaps that's why. None the less, if there are any spiders reading this I just want to say that I don't want another occasion of pulling back the bed covers to be faced with a spider scurrying down the underside of the duvet. Please.

Ants are different again - we have an annual invasion, first seen when the boy left a mostly eaten melon on the living room floor one evening. As I rose from the sofa to ascend to Bedford, I noticed that the melon had ceased to be entirely yellow, sporting rather fetching dotted black lines which moved in a slightly hypnotic fashion. Many cans of fly killer, ant killer and killer killer later, the earth was sporting a much larger hole in the ozone, but at least we were free from ants...inside the house at least. Since then it's been the Battle of the Somme...there's almost certainly a nest in the wall, but persuading a builder to come and remove enough bricks so we can nuke them has just elicited the response that "They'll only come back".

With a degree of trepidation I stood on a chair, reached up and managed to sweep the surprisingly docile creature into a glass. This operation was carried out rather more successfully than when we had a seagull fall down the chimney of the Brighton flat. He'd been there a few days before we came for the weekend, and had wreaked the sort of devastation that now makes my lip curl if anyone ever says it's lucky to have a bird crap on you. Jonthan Livingstone was removed eventually by throwing a large towel over him and then gently offering him up to an open window. Having captured our mini-beastie we decided, in the short term at least, to keep him as a pet called John (not my choice). He stayed long enough for us to decide that he was indeed a very lost grasshopper, although ex-girlfriend, our oft-called on entomologist unhelpfully claimed that he was 'gigantus green fliius'. As he was the size of my thumb, I suspect he is suffering the same cause of obesity that now afflicts the majority of the UK's population (am I wrong in my statistics there?).

Since then there's been a second one in the bathroom, in early stages of death, and now one behind my desk at work in the later stages of mumification. I swear I've never been so close to wildlife before.

We liked having a pet. But inspite of repeated requests, it's the only one we're ever likely to have...I grew up with many dogs, many more cats and a smattering of rabbits, guinea pigs and gerbils, not to mention a fish tank and loved each aned every one of them. But I know who will have to take the dog out for a walk every night, who'll have to go searching for a dead cat squashed by a car on the nearby road...and indeed who would look after creature when we holiday.

Virtual reality

'Don't believe what you read in the press' is something that is often said, but I suspect taken with a pinch of salt. And I guess I should be in a better place than most to judge...given my long and less than illustrous career as a PR, often quoted as saying, 'Never let the facts get in the way of a good story'.

The boy should be more cynical than most...his mother was much revered as a supreme example of the art of the PR. But like all young poeple, no matter how street wise he is innocent and therefore slightly gullible. That, however, seems to have changed in a revelatory flash akin to discovering that Father Christmas doesn't really exist (I still live in hope personally).

A couple of years ago, we had our bathroom completely revamped. Though small, it has turned out quite spectacular...a combination of my design awarenes and a builder who was good at guiding me...see www.tsarine.co.uk. At the time she said that my washroom would be photographed for Homes and Gardens magazine...but nothing much happened after the photographer came and went. Until a week ago, when ex-girlfriend rang to say she was looking at House Beautiful where there was a double page spread of my bathroom. Now apparently owned, designed and loved by Sue The Builder. Much chagrin on my part. On his return to the family nest, the boy was shown said article and his outrage was somewhat escalated from my own. I think if IPC (the publisher) had been close, a brick through the window would have been the order of the day. So there we have it. Nothing in the papers is true. The world is a tissue of lies. Hopefully the boy will recover to this devastating leap into the adult world of unreality.

Surf's up

When The Boy's away, it's a good time for him to have a break from me and vice versa...or so the teacher said to all the parents when they disappeared off to Zermatt earlier this year. None the less, the house always seems a little empty and motivation to do anything domestic goes out the window. I do resist the temptation to call to see how he's getting on...but the wicked witch of the west always insists that he rings me. Usually, as it's under duress, the conversations are short and uninformative...and end with me encouraging him not to worry about calling me if he doesn't need/want to. So it's been a surprise that calls this week have been full of excitable news about his latest holiday ventures. Yesterday, he learnt to surf and is insistent that he needs to buy a surf board....fortunately as the waves in Brighton don't lend themselves to this particualr sport, then it should be an argument easily won. Or will it?

Statistically sound

I'm taking advantage of the boy's absence to get a lie-in (he has an uncanny ability to rise early, which doesn't seem natural for a teenager) and the good weather to cycle the twelve miles into the office. I've got a fantastic gadget that tells me all sorts of things including the fact that essentially, I cycle downhill to the office and uphill to get home in the evening. I suspect I would be happier if it was the other way round. My travelling experiences lead me to the following conclusions:

1. As a car driver I do an emergency stop no more than once a year. As a Vespa scooter rider, it's once a month. And as a cyclist it's once a day.

2. Cyclists are a menace. They have no regard for the rules of the road, consideration for other road users...or even for themselves. I came to this conclusion any moons ago, but am pleased that even as a cyclist my conclusion is still right. I should point out that I do stop at traffic lights.

3. Cars are usually pretty law-abiding...but Vauxhall Astras and Audi A3s are invariably driven badly and should be avoided like the plague. I have a much longer list of dangerous road users, but as it is not in any way PC, it will have to remain in my head.

4. Vans are driven faster than they should be, and always come much closer to my shoulders than I would like; Buses are the worst at pulling out in front of you...or worse still when you're three-quarters along the side forcing you to stop mid-road or swerve into the on-coming traffic; lorries are fine...but never cycle up the inside as they have a habit of turning left with the likely outcome of squashing you into jam

5. Exercise may make your body ache, but makes you feel mentally alive, colours become more vivid and shapes sharper

There are no Daleks

The Boy has gone off to spend sometime with Grandma in Wales (as opposed to Grandma in Cyprus). It's become an annual ritual, providing me with something of a break...and indeed him too. We were up early on Saturday to ensure we had time to stop off at the designer discount outlet in Swindon...I'm not much of a fan, but it has given us two pairs of Quicksilver trainers for a grand total of £18 in the past, so I'm not one to turn my nose up at it. Unfortunately, declining to purchase a pair of jeans that he would have grown out of in a fortnight induced a sulk meaning there were no trainers deemed worthy. I, on the other hand, managed three shirts and a pair of shorts for 30 hard earned quids.

At the outlaws (a phrase coined by the boy's mum...my own phrase for the grandmother is 'Wicked Witch of the West' in honour of his mum's love of Wizard of Oz) there was only one embarassing moment. Somehow over lunch the topic of the boy leaving home came up...the boy asserted that I had said he was being thrown out when he hits 18...my defence that I hadn't said that, it was just that I couldn't see why anyone would want to stay at home when they grow up was met by a stony silence...particularly from the 51 year old uncle who still lives with his mother, The Wicked Witch. We moved on.

I left to go and visit Hereford friends, and a joyous paddle down the River Wye. Very much to be enjoyed, and for once I didn't fall in. Commenting on the scenery, one of our party stated quite clearly, 'Look there's a Dalek'. Two of us heard it quite distinctly. Her defence that she had in fact said, 'Oh smell the wild garlic' was dismissed, and we spent the rest of the day looking for Daleks.

Long Way up

About four years ago, the boy and I settled down to watch something called The Long Way Round...which featured Ewan MacGregor and Charlie Boorman riding round the world on motorbikes...I think we were faintly confused with The Motorcycle Diaries which featured a young Ernesto Guevara metamophise into 'Che' whilst travelling across South America on a mtorobike. As it turns out both are worth watching...several times. The Long Way Round has had a profound impact on both of us...Fred has become desperately interested in motorbikes (boo, hiss - I hope it's a passing phase. I've told him several times that he's not alllowed one until he's thirty-five, his initial acceptance is now being negotiated downwards and I wonder when he'll realise that at some stage he'll be given the metaphorical key to the house and I'll have little say, though plenty of sagely advice), and I now long on a daily basis for the time when I'll be able to stop the daily grind and do my own Long Way Round. Target date is the day the boy leaves school and packs his bags for university.

The follow up to The Long Way Round was The Long Way Down..and this weekend we had our own version....dubbed The Long Way Up By mountain bike from the coast to forest...depending on how you measured the map, some 100-120km. We left sharply at 7.00 am on Saturday, having spent Friday on pre-expeditionary preparations. Finding a route had to say the least been challenging - so a note to Sustrans - please put detailed National Cycle Routes on your web site. An hour out of Brighton, and early fatigue had set in - we both needed a break, and vivid memories of an earlier failed solo trip came flooding back...I guess the land must be slightly inclined and it was an effort and a half. Overcoming this, we had many enjoyable sights on the way...being overtaken by six ice cream vans was a curious joy, and led to rousing cheers from the both of us...plenty of vintage vehicles on the way to the Ardingly vintage car, van, truck, bus rally...a steam-engine fair at Tandridge and not far off that a monstrous climb up to the North Downs with stunning views over Sussex and I guess Surrey.

Taking a novice 13 year old through the middle of central London on a cycle may have been brave or fooloish...there's always a fine line I think, but we made it without incident. Our pace was quickened as we went past key markers - Croydon Town Hall (?!!), the first congestion charge sign, forst site of the Gerkhin, Borough High St, Tower Bridge, the first green space after the smoke, school and then home. 10 hours door to door...not fast, but more than good enough. Our success was exhilarating beyond belief...for the boy a fantastic achievement and the high ensured that our aches and pains quickly passed.

Young friends

Two or three years ago, a client started talking about something called Facebook...it was going to be really big in the very near future. I did as I should and duly signed up, whilst thinking this was nothing more than a dating website. My account laid dormant for a very long time until it became apparent that most everyone I now is on Facebook...and has upwards of a hundred friends. Making me Nicki no mates with a grand total of six. Of course, social networking sites have indeed become the next CB radio, eight track player and micro-scooter rolled into one. I've now added a few more friends and am pleased to have reached a respectable thirty plus. Deciding what to allow your offspring to do on the web is tricky (see previous posts), but I didn't feel that Facebook should be excluded. Naturally the boy's quickly gained several hundred (slight exageration) friends and has added so many applications that he knows his genetic strengths, what kind of superhero he is, what breed of dog he is, and more worryingly he knows how horny he is and what kind of sexy friends he has. But in general he has stuck to the straight and narrow. And hopefully the unfamilar birth date is a deterrent for prowlers. Today I had a friend request...a name I didn't recognise, so clicked the link. An unknown 13 or 14 year old girl looking for 'dating'. She's a friend of a friend's daughter...so let's hope that it's a windup, rather than a naive and precocious girl passing her contact details around until the next pervert finds her....Daily Mail readers should have a field day.

...and whilst we're on the perv trail, greetings to the person who came to the blog whilst searching for 'boys, porn, men'. It keeps my fatherly protective responses fine tuned...but don't let me catch you down a dark alley.

For the high jump

Friday was Vis day (Viz Day? Do the fat slags come along to seduce innocent young public school boys...not sure)....in normal parlance this is Prize Day...dutifully I avoided the two-hour long ceremony (well the boy wasn't getting a prize, and I've had enough of chearing everyone else's offspring on) but attended the Chapel where the boy was performing in Latin. Oddly though, he was narrating so I didn't understand why he'd been practising his Latin. It was uproariously funny...everyone laughed their heads off, but I suspect that's because we were told to rather than because we could pluck our rusty Latin out of the deep sewers of memory. Play over, the teacher thanks us for coming along, so I wandered off to the Headmaster's garden (evidently 'headmistress' has gone the way of 'actress'...slaughtered on the alter of political correctness) to grab tea and a bun amongst the other parents. At home, the boy complained that I hadn't seen the Latin play...my defence that I had done and had photos to prove it was somewhat undermined by him pointing out that I'd seen the first play, but he'd been in the second play AND HE'D TOLD ME THAT. Apologies mean nothing when the need for imposing guilt was paramount.

Revenge, sweet revenge came all too soon. Sunday was Old Boys day...and amongst the many opportunities was the chance to leap over the high jump bar. I looked at it, and as it was so low I though I could just about step over it. A dozen tries and one bloodied elbow later I had to admit defeat...still mystified that my mind and body were clearly in two separate worlds. The boy was collapsed on the floor unable to stop the hysterical laughter. One day, one day he'll suffer the same humiliation....!

Life's pants

Somehow the boy has run out of pants...he's always had a mountain of them, but just suddenly unless I wash on a daily basis (and even in our sexy shiny black steam-powered machine I hate washing) he doesn't seem to have any. I've tried to make the point that stashing his pants behind the bathroom door is not helping, but even the threat that I'm not doing any washing until clothes that need washing are in the washing bin hasn't brought any joy. I have a feeling that there are twenty pairs hidden under the debris which covers his bedroom florr, but to be honest I'm too nervous to start looking. Even the local council's health and safety officer would probably run a mile at the site of his room. I don't mind so much...after all he has to sleep there, but regularly the piles of 'stuff' start spilling out into the corridor...and it is at this point that my bellowing starts. It's usually followed by a farly sulky evening...and I just know that I am the worst father in the world, I simply don't understand and it's just not fair. Still where would life be if we didn't have stereotypes to keep us going.

Back to pants. I decided that I had to do something when he started pinching mine...I think there's simply something wrong with that...although I have a sneaking suspicion that mothers and daughters exchange clothes all the time. So in a subtle case of revenge, I went to Next, got the style that he likes...cotton boxer shorts...in suitably restrained black and beige patterns, which he put on today...they're too big to be warn under his gym shorts, but he couldn't have any of mine, so presumably, he had a a pant valence whilst running the 1500m.....

Ashes to ashes

Three generations travelled together to bid farewell to the oldest. In the car was one grandfather, three fathers, three sons, and a grandson and two brothers. It's an old riddle, but never more appropriate. The brother, the boy and I travelled north to sprinkle the ashes over The Roaches...an impressive rocky outcrop near Leek in Staffordshire. Our journey fun...lots to chat about...and it seems death brings the opportunity to relive our memories...and I hope rekindle our lost relationship. Having picked up the urn (a little secret...it's more like one of those sweet jars from which you could choose a quarter of lemon sherberts, or bullseyes, or mints...and so on), we drove from our newly discovered stepmother...actually we'd known (of)her for thirty five years, but it was only eight weeks ago that the old man had revealed they'd been married for four years. What seemed from base camp a short hill walk turned into a climb worthy of an expeditionary force. One of us bounded up like an antelope, the other weazed away from the classic combination of asthma and marlboro whilst the other clung closely to the slope from a recent outbreak of vertigo. A motley crew, but we made it. The brother wanted to send a letter to the father, but unseasonal gale force winds made this a challenge worthy of fitting a rich man through the eye of a needle...when the paper eventually lit, clearly the obstinancy of the intended recipient held true...taking some twenty minutes to burn through. At the point of sprnkling the ashes...it's amazing how bulky incinerated human remains are, we simply said goodbye, not knowing what else should or could be said. The brother emptied the pot...with ashes flying into the air...much as you might see someone's spirit fly up to heaven in a B-movie. That was it. The end, a few tears...but not as painful as expected...a relief really. Lunch beckoned. Hopefully bonds remade. For the boy, his second funereal experience...and maybe he will see that it can be good to let the pain out and that from death there can be good. I'd like to think so.