Continuing the Dr Who theme

It just keeps coming...wonder why?

AG has pointed out that she can't open the link I pasted here, so I've deleted it and instead here is the picture...



I can't believe they overlooked me for the next Dr Who!

Winterwonderland

Our few days away have been glorious...and just as a New Year should be. We took the long way round for our drive up to Peterchurch, going through the New Forest, and deciding to cross the Severn by the old bridge so we could head up the Wye Valley. We took the opportunity of stopping at Tintern Abbey - somewhere I'd wanted to go to for years. The boy was as awe-struck as me - there was a real atmosphere there, and if it hadn't been for temperatures that would make the Arctic seem tropical we would have stopped for longer. But I did buy the T-shirt for posterity.



Our gathering was at our wonderful friend's place The Barn, which manages to be both highly contemporary on the inside, yet warm and welcoming at the same time. It is a favourite place to come and relax several times a year. The house was crowdered [sic] with our friend's two lovely daughters, his ex-ish girlfriend and her poppet, Gym instructor, his wife and sons - one currently studying to be a vet in Edinburgh. Gym instructor is an amazingly gentle, fun guy...and his current claim to fame is he is the model for a new range of action dolls to be launched by the MoD. So look out in the shops. His other claim to fame is the need for furnace-like heat. So the house was kept at a constant 35C...oh yes we could all walk around in our bikinis sweating away the pounds whilst outside the frost got thicker and thicker and thicker.



We nearly had the opportunity to go off to the Point to Point in Ledbury, but seriously frozen ground meant that the horse part was cancelled. The human race was still on though (human ankles more disposbale than horse ones?). I thought I might have a crack, but ducked out when I was told it was seven and a half miles and I had no kit. The cold had nothing to do with it. Our host still went, and found himself racing against a very diminutive Richard Hammond, complete with jodhpurs. He was evidently a jolly nice chap.



For NYE, we had added friends from just up the lane, so a very full house indeed and a fine Jamie Oliver designed meal was rounded off by the boy entertaining us on the guitar. I remember thinking whilst listening and watching that I could think of no better place to be in the whole world to be spending my start to 2009. We rounded off with a good toast to to all friends, and some fireworks as near as dammit as good as London's. So no doubt there were a good few shaken sheep around.



As you can see the frost was deep, and the place took on the most magical air. Just what the doctor ordered!


Happy New Year to you all

Aye Aye.

The boy returned last night so we headed off with unexpected friend to one of my favourite Brigton (Hove actually) restaurants - Harry's in Western Road, where fine English food can be consumed. There was a slight delay in departing as various mobile phones needed to be 'reflashed'...the boy has an unnerving knack of turning the latest technology into ex-technology. Mission accomplished, and a short dash in the bitter, bitter cold got us to the restaurant. Liver and Bacon for me, a veggie burger for UF and a ginormous steak for the boy. Delicious.

This morning we had two missions to accomplish. Get the broken glases fixed (see previous post...I can't hyperlink as a) I don't know how and b) I'm on a Mac which means I can't do anything other than type simple words one after another - the PC seems to be in a terminal state - my fault, nothing to do with the boy) And find a coat.

Down at Vision Express, we were dutifully entertained by the really nice staff - how do they find and keep these people; they should be pleased that they get everything so right. As it happens, the boy's glasses couldn't be fixed immediately (no lenses in stock), so we bought another pair after a quick eye check. This was supposed to be a cheap pair until the proper ones are done, but surprise, surprise, they are Ted Baker ones and cost designer prices. I took the opportunity of having my eyes checked for the first time in four years, and I remain still almost perfect. They took a pictre of my retina, which they say will be e-mailed to me, so when it gets here I'll post it here. I found that bit really exciting, as I'm gradually building up a complete picture of the inside of my body - I already have x-rays of my fractured wrist and fractured elbow. So if I keep going my inner soul will be entirely on display. Hopefully, I won't have to break anything to get more pictures though....

...the search for the prefect coat was interminable. I think we went in every possible shop imaginable. They say that shopping is Britain's most popular hobby. Please tell me why. It's a nightmare, of surly staff, in-the-way other shoppers, and extended choice of everything that is NOT in the sale. We searched high, we searched low. The coats all started to look the same to me, but evidently none were good enough....fortunately that included the £500+ Nicole Fahri one that he was never going to to be got anyway. We ended up in the most improbable place...indeed the very last shop in Brighton - Moss Bros. Amazingly they had the best selection of all, and in the right sizes. So not surprisingly several hours were taken up with choosing the right one. With new coat and new glasses, there is something of a remarkable resemblance to David Tennant...so continuing the apparent Dr Who theme of our Christmas!

Yo ho ho

Well Christmas has done its usual trick of creeping up (in a rush) unexpectedly, bursting out in a rather brash and loud fashion, and then disappearing into a dark hole for another 364 (or is it 365 this time) days....I guess 2009 isn't a leap year. So another year when I don't have to worry about being proposed to on February 29th (I should be so lucky!)

I've been the most bah humbug about Christmas this year ever...mainly due to the sense of economic gloom crystalising rather sharply in December, and escaping complete financial collapse by the skin of my teeth...but more of that some other time. For no logical reason I remain quite confident that 2009 will turn out better than the press expect...and that whilst I know the world will change, it will be for the better.

More than ever, the festive festivities have had their surprising moments...a trip on Christmas Eve to Theresa the Nanny, followed by a relatively gentle stroll down the motorway to the Rhonnda. I played my cards well, and managed to keep the boy's much wanted present a secret...a watch that tells you the temperature (I work it out by whther I'm sweating or shivering), whether the tide is in or out (wet or dry feet), and which direction you're heading in (do they speak in a southern drawl, or scottish brogue). If you push the right button, it'll even tell you the time.



My present from the boy was a Stereophonics DVD, but not quite a surprise as I'd had to buy it myself; at least he wrapped it!

The day was pleasant enough...a trip out to Aunt in the Valleys, followed by a walk down in Cardiff Bay...bloody freezing, but delighted to find somewhere to buy a steaming cappuccino...hurrah, my hands were falling off, and a return to have a late lunch, traditional snooze followed by Doctor Who. And in the same vein, here's a picture of the boy standing by the entrnce to Torchwood.



The boy gave us a few fine songs on the guitar, which entertained me and delighted the Wicked Witch. Late, the boy and I retired to our shared guest room, where I was surprised to be confronted with the request that next year, "Could we go skiing?" I don't know why; I thought he was enjoying himself.

Boxing morning, I normally leave for Brighton early, but this year we headed off to the discount outlet centre at Bridgend...not that either of us was desperate to spend money, but I'd not been there, and the boy wants a smart coat. As it happens, surprisngly no coat for the boy but a pile of stuff for me, returning to Grandma's house with half an hour to spare before the boy's challenging sister arrived. Suddenly the boy turned as scarlet as Santa's costume, as he suddenly appreciated the downside of throwing a strop a couple of weeks ago whilst we were shopping for festive gifts. Surprise number 4. No present for sister. A major disaster was averted by 'Live with mother uncle', who produced out of a hat a magical iTunes voucher.

Having meeted and greeted, I've retreated to Brighton for 24 hours of RnR, until the boy descends again. And I'll probably spend some of that time re-writing this...

Bloody annoying (2)

Or maybe "Wool, the, eyes, my, pulled, have, had, I

After a few nights when the boy has struggled to settle down (surely at 13, Christmas is not that exciting...is it?), the boy came down tonight long after he should have been soundly in the land of nod. By the cut of his jib, there was clearly something not quite right. Off goes the TV, closed goes the laptop (evidently boys can multi-task sometimes...but only when electronic gadgets are involved). Come and sit down and tell me what's wrong. Some hesitation (works well for dramatic effect), the boy sits and tentatively hands over his glasses. Broken glasses. Bad but not that bad...although whether they were snapped in his jacket when it was on his back as claimed or thrown on the floor is open to debate. Time for blubbering tears (works well on the heart strings). School jacket has been lost. He's known since last week and stayed stum. In (new) jacket was ipod and expensive headphones.

Loss of sympathy immediate.

Knowing what to do or say is beyond me.

He's only 13....but bloody annoying!

Merry Christmas one and all...

Bloody annoying

I seem to have nothing of any note to report. Zilch. Nadda. A big zero.

What is it with teenagers? They always do the exact opposite of what you expect. How annoying is that?

Having had pretty much a free run of things since school broke up ten days ago, he's done nothing that should send me into high dudgeon. Yes, there's a few clothes on the floor, yes he was ten minutes late back from meeting friends, yes he left a plate on the floor. No he's not stayed in bed all day, no he hasn't answered back, no he hasn't asked for extra pocket money. He's being perfectly reasonable about everything. So with the best will in the world I can't seem to find anything to get uppity about. grrr.

So it seems this really is the season of peace and goodwill to all men. And long may it last. I'm very grateful really.

My favourite line of the year, comes not from home, but from the office. We have a man of a different generation in the office. He reads the Daily Mail. He's married to Jane. One day last week he went home early because, quote, "Jane's washing machine has broken."

Naturally, we've followed his lead in assigning all things kitchen and bathroom in the office to the 'girlies' to look after (in between making cups of tea and coffee), whilst I'll sort out the boy things. I've extended this to home as well. However, it now seems that neither the boy nor I have any responsibilities for cooking, washing or cleaning. So soon we'll be dirty, starving and unkempt. But at least we have a big telly and lots of tools in the garage.

Hallelujah

I've decided at long last to turn to Jesus for salvation.

The decision was prompted this morning by turning up at the tube station (no Vespa or cycle for me today as I'm meeting the old boys for a stiff drink) to find the local churches handing out lovely hot coffees in plain white polystyrene cups (memo to self: sue like the McDonalds customer did on the basis that they failed to say that the coffee cup she bought contained hot liquid...she got $millions) and delicious home baked chocolate biscuits (memo to self: remember to sue; packaging doesn't say 'may contain traces of nuts'). The merry band were not collecting money, or forcing themselves or their views on dejected commuters in any way...so the refreshments, accompanied by hearty smiles were more than appreciated. (memo to self: remember to complain to Transport for London, as I'm sure they must have offended many non-Christians.

The boy remains away for a second night, hopefully completing his Christmas shopping with the ex-nanny, returning tomorrow. When he's in bed and asleep, I doubt I'll be able to resist trying to sneak a look and see what will be waiting for me under the Christmas tree on the 25th...

Party on

The boy did as he had been instructed, and was home by 10 on Saturday morning having stayed at a friends over Friday night.

And that was where it all started to unravel. The parents had gone away, leaving the 17 year old brother of the boys friend to look after them…some other 13 year olds, plus some fourteen year old friends of the friend’s sister. I think. Bed time, it transpires was about 6.30 in the morning.

For sure, I’m grateful that there was no alcohol involved, and nothing more addictive than X-Box 360 was consumed. And in general, I can’t deny that there appears to have been no shenanigans of any sort. So as all night parties go, this goes straight to the top of my list of things not to worry about.

But a boy who hasn’t had more than a few moments sleep is a very grumpy beast indeed. Saturday was largely devoted to the boy snoozing whenever he got a moment…and the car journey to Brighton was a good long snooze. But even an early night on Saturday, didn’t make up for it, so Sunday was full on ‘Kevin’ (Harry Enfield) mode. And as we were traipsing round the shops trying to buy imaginative, desirable presents, it made for a fairly grim weekend.

It’s a right of passage I suppose...and that is reward in itself. But as we ate pizza for lunch on Sunday, I was left thinking about how many more rights of passage I've got to look forward to. Uuurgh, there seems to be a long list...

And he does look quite sweet in the picture I took as he lay in front of the open fire…even if he has promised to remove parts of my body if I show it to any body. So please don't look.

Plastic surgery

Today I visited the doctor.

It's a rare thing for me...but evidently normal for men not to see the doctor from one year to the next, unless it's too late. Man flu (which I currently have) doesn't require a trip to the local GP, just acres of sympathy from your nearest and dearest (which I don't have, as the boy is in training for man flu too).

It wasn't much of a thing, simply having some skin tags removed. I did it once before and they burnt the tag off; this time it was 'cryo' - in the doctors words, "we're going to give you frost bite". Nice. Thanks. I think the doctor must enjoy his job, as he zapped not just the one or two on my neck I was aware of (the boy had on too many occasions pointed them out as ugly growths), but kept going and going. A bit like polishing out the scratches on your car I guess.

Six hours later, instead of withering and falling off, they've ballooned. So here's a picture of me as I currntly look:



Thank heavens, the boy has taken himself off for the night and won't have to witness this strange creature now inhabiting home. I, however, will get nightmares everytime I look in the mirror...especially if I wake up in the night and glance across to the mirror beside the bed.

As a postscript, I should pay a glancing debt of gratitude to Jonathan Ross, who once spent the early part of an interview with some fading celeb, discussing all the awful things that happen to male bodies as they age. So skin tags have been expected, as is unruly hair growth in unexpected places. Other bodily declarations of decay are to be avoided for now.

Seven of nine

My lovely friend Nappy Valley tagged me recently, and I have to confess it turned into a much greater challenge than I thought, so here are the various seven things...I may change my mind later:

7 things I plan to do before I die

- Visit every UN heritage site in the world (if I say it enough I will end up doing it)
- Spend a whole season skiing
- Build my own house (I’ve already designed it, and just need the money and the right place to put it)
- Let the boy buy me a pint
- Ride a motorbike from one side of the world to the other
- Something (however small) to help solve the Palestine issue
- Stop worrying about anything and everything

7 things I do now

- fall asleep on the sofa at 9 o’clock. It makes me quite huffy and puffy that I miss precious time with the boy
- always leave at least a couple of things to be washed up when we go away from either the flat or the cottage. It's a superstition that by coming back to something that needs to be done from the last time we were ther, then there's a continuity...I know it doesn't make any sense
- Spend most of my time getting angry about anything and everything. That makes me so angry. I think I've become a grumpy old man without realising it
- Cycle at least once a week the 25 mile round trip to the office. Usually it’s two or three times. It’s the most fun I have getting fit…and almost as good as the rollerblading I used to do
- Wonder why during the week we live in a tiny cottage that’s far too small for us, and then rattle around a flat that’s far too big for us at the weekends. There should be a better compromise
- Continue to not manage the finances in the same way I’ve always not managed the finances
- Love listening to the boy playing guitar…it’s such a talent to have. I hope he uses it well to entertain friends and family. And seduce girls when he’s old enough. 13 is not old enough

7 things I can’t do now

- Kite surf. I really, really want to but have little sense of balance and remain terrified that the kite will sweep me away to sea
- Get organised. I have (literally) a pile of unopened post 4’ high
- Relax. What’s that?
- Have a decent social life…I allowed the last five years of single parentage to get in the way of other things. Oops.
- Have a lie in. I miss that so much
- High jump. I humiliated myself at the boy’s school this year by failing to clear something that was about as high as my knees
- Enjoy ironing. And there always seems so much of it

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex

- strong mind, strong looks
- competitive nature
- wicked or rude sense of humour
- positive outlook and energy
- if they can tell me something I don't know, or do domething I can't do
- if they can change a plug. A wheel is even better
- good conversation

7 things I say most often

- umm or err
- I’m fed up with living in a pigsty, can you take your stuff to your room
- (and then) Tidy your room
- You c**t – when I’m cycling and someone steps in front of me, turns in front of me or otherwise puts my life at risk
- “aaaargh” When something hasn’t worked out as I expected. Which is usually every day
- “I hate this country”. Well I do. Whatever happened to the green and pleasant land of my childhood
- “How’s it going?” Out of genuine interest rather than a formulaic greeting

7 celebrities I admire

I have little time for celebrities who are generally self-serving egotists (but that doesn’t stop them being great actors, singers, etc). But I have my list of five (Friends introduced me to this concept…so hopefully you understand)…for the sake of this, I’m going to count them as one:

- Monica Bellucci, Joanne Whalley, Lesley Anne Down, Angelina Jolie, Audrey Hepburn

Plus six people who are famous for being great

- George Bush. Ha only joking. Jimmy Carter is doing a lot now to put the world right
- Vladimir Putin. I like to know where I stand with someone. And you know where you stand with him. Rightly or wrongly
- Ian McEwan. I read ‘Black Dogs’ cover to cover whilst waiting for a flight from Turkey
- Anish Kapoor. I stumbled over his work in Madrid, and am now obsessed
- Muntadhar al Zeidi. In one small act he summed up the feelings of the whole world. Many people were secretly saying "I wish I could have done that"
- Stephen Fry. Somewhat over-hyped at the moment, but clever and amusing

7 favourite foods

- Chicken liver fried in red wine on a bed of spinach in a ring of rice, with soured cream poured over the top
- Tuna with cannellini beans, parsley and red onion swimming in olive oil and a dash of lemon juice
- Salted pistachio nuts
- Venison or bison or buffalo – stewed or grilled or roasted
- Marmite spread thinly on bagels. Or on Twiglets
- Cheese – stilton and anything that really stinks
- Marshmallows. Don’t know why

7 other bloggers

- much as I enjoy doing this…I know I can be a pain for some people, so I will simply tag the first seven people who come to visit…but don’t in anyway feel obliged, at all.

Three colours. Blue

I was never aware of father/son rivalry until three years ago when the boy started attending the same school as I had done thirty odd (and even) years ago. I was moderately successful...some good grades, some average grades, I managed to make prefect and even monitor, but at the crucial moment was distracted by a girl so got the interview, but didn't get the place at Oxford. Academically, the boy is well ahead of me...but not knowing how well I did keeps him on his toes. I shall choose my moment to tell him carefully.

On the sports field I was hardly Olympic Gold medal stuff, and in most cases did my utmost to avoid anything that involved running around chasing an odd-shaped ball in the cold and wet. There's always been a wry smile on my face then when ever it's mentioned that I achieved School colours for my cross-country running. Not that I was any good, it's just that I turned up and ran until I got a little tired. I've kept the tie ever since as an amusing momento.

The boy was delighted that when he arrived at Bancrofts, cross country running had been demoted to half-colours, minor sport; I was crest-fallen...but not much. From the glint in his eye, it was clear his sights were set, and he'd soon be the equal of my sporting achievement.

It has spurred the boy on, and his sporting prowess includes being best at javelin throwing for two years, captaining the house athletics team, joining the swimming squad, and playing for the school rugby team for the last three seasons.



And boy has he worked at it, and where he has lacked talent, he has more than made up for it in grit and determination. And a stubbornness to succeed which is inherited in equal measure from both his mother and his father.

He was gutted then on Saturday when at the end of the season, again, he was overlooked for school colours inspite of his endeavours on the rugby field. The devastation was there for all to see. And I too felt he had been robbed - he turns out religiously and tries his damnedest. He deserves them. I'm sure he does. But no words of consolation from me have or will make up for him not getting them. I suspect to him, I am the winner, magnanimous in victory. Which is a shame, and I will have to work doubly hard to keep him motivated for next season. Nothing would please me more to see him beat me in classroom, field and office.

Going underground

Whilst the world crashes around us, it's nice to know that somethings don't change. Although the office is as close to London Bridge as it is to Tower Bridge, we work in a village...not the oft spoke 'global village', but Bermondsey village...if you can read the pic, you'll see it's official. And it is true that just around the corner is our Village Hall. I like that very much, it gives us a real community feel. Although the spirit can sometimes be lacking - and I've never seen any Morris Dancing around here. Inspite being in a 'village', there have been three murders here this year - most in the national press. The owner of the local sandwich shop killed by her chef (allegedly) because she objected to him smoking pot, a shooting in a nightclub in the tunnel, and a youth knifed in a local park. Random acts of violence do make me worry excessively for the boy's future...I hope through luck or thought remains safe as he grows up.



Also photographed, is the curious drainpipe. As you can see it goes up the side of the wall in Bermondsey Street tunnel. I think it's a piece of sculpture, as it serves no purpose that I can see, and I've had a pretty close look - it's got two ends, but there is nothing attached to it behind...so the best you can do is put a ferret in one end and watch it run out the other....assuming it's dextrous enough to get past the U-bend at the top. The word 'random' scrawled next to it may be a clue.

And finally, is the road sign in the tunnel which seems to over-complicate things by suggesting we seek alternative routes as the footpath is closed...there is a perfectly fine one on the other side of the road...perhaps they can't suggest we cross over in case we get knocked over and sue...



I saw on the SkyNews web site the world's largest rubber band ball - it's about seven foot across. I think they've been cheating - some of the rubber bands look enormous. We've been doing one for the last few years by collecting the rubber bands that the postman carelessly chucks on the ground when delivering the post. Ours is the size of a generous grapefruit. But probably not as tasty.

Jingle bells

Christmas is a coming. The season starts for me on 1st December asit's on that day I stop changing channels whenever a Christmas advert, that's been showing since August, comes on the TV. All those impossibly glamorous ads for the latest perfumes and aftershaves means that the turkeys should start feeling nervous. Equally the countdown to the holiday ads which start on Boxing Day also begins. So the excitement begins to build...especially as it seems this year we'll be having flurries of snow throughout December.

We'll get our office Xmas tree from the very fabulous Borough Market at a price which is about double what anyone with any sense of reason or fairness (or credit crunch) would charge for it, but it'll look lovely once we've put the lights and (corporate orange) baubles on it.

At home the Xmas Decs will go up around the fifteenth of the month...Brighton has a very unsophisticated 6' fibre optic tree which kinda catches the spirit of the season, but in Buckhurst Hill there just isn't room for a tree, so we throw some sparkly lights on the bushes which I've done my utmost to kill this year...inability rather than anything deliberate you understand of course, I hope.

Today, whilst trying to find my way to Cavendish Square, being guided by a satnav which has little sense of direction, and certainly doesn't know its left from its right, I ended up somewhere between Piccadilly and Soho, ducking under some gargantuan snow men hung across the streets. Which was nice. And then turned into Regent Street, where the Christmas lights are a beautiful series of twinkling spiderswebs. Fabulous.

I love Christmas...secretly I still believe in Santa Claus, love the Christmas lights and remain convinced that there will be six inches of snow when I wake up on the 25th, and relive happy childhood memories of large family gatherings which just seemed to go on and on and on.

But this year, Christmas has become a bit of a challenge...for the last four years, the boy and I have dutifully trecked down to Llantrisant to spend time with The Wicked Witch of the West. It seems only fair that if TWWOTW has lost her daughter, then grandson should be there. And the boy has always enjoyed going. The first couple of year's the boy's sister deigned to honour us with her company, so it was a good family gathering for the two of them. But the sister has singularly failed to keep in touch with "itttle bruvva", almost since they were separated and she went off to live with her father whilst the boy came to me. And she is less and less inclined to come across to the Christmas celebrations.

Equally as time has gone on, I've felt more and more like a rasher of bacon at a Jewish wedding (sorry, not PC - please suggest acceptable alternative)...not that I'm not welcomed with open arms, its just that they didn't speak to me for five years from the onset of divorce procedings until the day that the brain haemorrhage struck down the boy's mum. So it's always a little uncomfortable (my problem, not their's)

And then last year, after a day of doing nothing but watching TV (apart from a couple of hours when I escaped for a very long walk by myself), I vowed not to spend the day in Wales again.

Which went down like a lead balloon when I told them ("Well you're always welcome you know"), but the boy merely shrugged his shoulders when I started dropping hints about nine months ago. And he's right, it's my decision not his...but some guidance would help.

So all well and good providing we have a good alternative. But we don't. I haven;'t got a Plan B, let alone a Plan A.

At one stage I thought we might get to ski for Christmas...but tightening of belts and declining business haven't allowed for that

And there's a high risk of the boy and I in Brighton entertaining ourselves for Christmas Day. And even I know that's not good.

So either I swallow my pride, make the arrangements to go west, or spend a day full of guilt-ridden angst...now which should it be?

Motorbikin'

Yesterday we skeedaddled up to Birmingham to the Motorcycle show and see the latest on two wheels. I have a terrible conscience about encouraging the boy and his interest in bikes, but hopefully when he sees me fall off and hurt myself he will see the folly of my ways and decide not to tread in my footsteps. Naturally I don't regard buying him a copy of Nick Sanders book about riding round the world is in any way encouragement. Umm

Of course there were lots of exciting things to see and do. We tried out all the bikes for size...so I know that you need to be a chimpanzee to ride a Harley, and a midget to ride a Buell, unless you get the long wheel base version! The boy seems to favour shiny new Chinese bikes...which I think is sensible since they will dominate his world, and we both loved the Triumphs. We giggled over the sign on the Chinese bike which warned us not be touched on the muffler..something everyparent should teach their offspring.

I'm still saving for my KTM, although was distracted by the thought of a Royal Enfield, which is little changed after fifty years, though these days enjoys a made in India tag.

We agreed that we would get two bikes and ride them to see Grandma in Cyprus. How we reconcile that with our agreement that the boy will not have a bike until he's 25, I do not know.

Disappointingly, neither of us enjoyed the promotional girls...all of whom looked erm well err rough and not in a good way. I think I did the right thing at least in saying to the boy that if he was going to look at them to not do it furtively...better to have these thing in the open.

And finally (depending on how Blogger decides to layout the blog...I just don't know how to get things positioned at certain points in the text...) the most exciting thing EVER was the Wall of Death. Noisy, smelly, fast and furious. And enough to scare the living daylights out of the four year old standing next to us.