A woman's work is never done....by a man

I did ironing on Sunday night. I did ironing on Monday night. I did ironing tonight. An hour a piece. I iron quite quickly, but not very often. And I should be doing ironing tomorrow night. But instead I'm going out for a drink.

I loathe ironing more than I can say. And as soon as it's done, it needs to be done again. Who invented ironing, and why can't we just go round in crumpled shirts. I'm sure it would look cool.

The boy can iron. He does it when I go on strike. I might strike more often.

Art for arts sake

A millenium ago, and before the boy had put in an appearance, his mum and sister came along with me to an exhibition of new art and new design. Of the event I remember little other than the words of the boy's sister, then a four-year old girl. "That's not art, that's just a piece of wood. And that one's got a hole in it." We shuffled away in embarrassed silence as the artist in question glared at us.

My own artistic ability is summed up the vote held in fourth grade art lesson once. The whole class held their hand up when asked if I was a yobo. Oh well.

The month of May is Festival time in Brighton, and to my utter joy, it is being artistically directed by Anish Kapoor. I first came across Kapoor about twenty years ago. I had a business meeting in Madrid on a Monday, so took the opportunity to spend the weekend there. I'd never been to Spain before, and among the many mistakes I made was to order my evening meal at 8.00pm...a couple of hours before any of the Madrilenos. Not being able to read Spanish, I ordered various dishes, and to this day I don't know what they were. The highlight was to wander into a gallery and dsicover an exhibition by someone called Anish Kapoor. I was transfixed and have taken every opportunity since to see examples of his work. I'm close to being a groupie, so it was seventh heaven to discover his involvement in Brighton.


The boy's previous experience of Kapoor was at Tate Modern when we lived round the corner from it. We had both been over-awed by its immense size and presence.



Saturday, and I persuaded the boy to come up to the Chattri on the Downs to see The Curve. It's a longish walk through fields of cows and pleasent at any time. It was sunny when we started, windy when we got there and slightly damp when we came back. I could have stayed up there all day, but I have a feeling the words "It's just a mirror, and it's even bent" were rapidly forming on the boy's lips.




Sunday, we had three more to go and see...the need for the boy to buy rucksack and boots for his Duke of Edinburgh Award, meant he was easily persuaded to come along. The first in Fabrica...a church turned art gallery. Stunning...but strangely we seemed to be the only ones who felt the need to read the story carefully inscribed by Salman Rushdie around the sides. Since it explained the inside, it seemed quite important.




Next was in The Pavillion Gardens, and generally ignored by most - truth be told, it's poorly sited and easily ignored.



Finally at the Old Market, and as they say, always leave the best to last. Marvelous. And in true Kapoor style, reality was distorted when the long oval gash dug out of the ground appears a perfect circle in the photograph.

Losing your cherry

I feel the need to point out that this wasn't me. Although my son is 14 and, as far as I know, still a virgin.

Man sought prostitute for son, 14

I am desperate to know the conversation that must've gone on earlier on that evening:

"Dad, dad, can I have a new pair of trainers?"
"No"
"Dad, dad, can I have a new bike?"
"No"
"Dad, dad, can I have a new Playstation?"
"No"
"Dad, dad, can I go and watch Man U play tomorrow?"
"No"
"Dad, dad, can I lose my virginity?"
"Sure, jump in the car"

School report

Last week was parents' evening at the school, and a chance to review progress.

On the downside, I have to report there was no free-flowing wine as there has been at other recent school events. So I was sober as a judge. Also the german teacher I have a soft spot for was on stern form, so no chance to practice my charms. Such as they are.

An added complication was that instead of the teachers being crammed into the Great Hall, so it was pretty easy to march up and down the rows and spot the ones I was booked to see, they had spread themselves across three rooms in three different buildings, so getting from one to 'tother involved a mad sprint, and then careering around the room to find the particular teacher in question. Arriving sweaty and out of breath probably doesn't convey a parent in control of themsleves let alone their offsping. At least we were all in the same boat, apart from the smarty-pants parents who had arrived early and plotted their route with a Tom Tom. Bet their children are swots too.

You get 5 minutes a piece and not a second more, or else a long queue forms behind with much tutting, humphing and whispering. My conversations tend to be fairly brief, and this year I was pretty well prepared, so no need to linger longer.

Last year I was lulled into a false sense of security, and inflated ego, by my inital chats. The boy was a hard working angel and a credit to himself, his parent and the school. I got to the last teacher, and was off-balanced by "I'm so glad you've come to see me, I need to talk to you about your son." After a five minute roasting, I slunk away.

This year the expectation levels were set differently, to the extent that when the conversation started with "I'm glad you've come to see me...", I simply said, "Can I just cut across you. I'm aware of this, that and the other issues, is there anything I don't know about, or any guidance you can give me." Of course, it worked in reverse, and I was wrong-footed by the occassional. "Your son is gifted" or "He is my rock". Long discussions were had about exam results which had produced a mixed bag of 'expected' and 'disappointing'. The dedication to revision hadn't been all that it should have been, and coasting in some subjects where he has a natural talent was also apparent to one and all. In two subjects, weaker than expected results were down, mainly, to 'not reading the question'. I'm glad to say that the French mistress is charmed, which is a significant turn around from the early part of the year which had seen several frantic calls to and from the school. That's progress.

We were all agreed that a more focused and dedicated approach would deliver better next year. And hopefully the boy will work harder too.

And that will be important because he starts in earnest on GCSE studies (should I still be calling them 'O' levels?) after the imminent half-term holdiay. Oh, and of course, because I'd quite like to swagger around next year's parent's evening with my chest puffed out. Again.

Birthday wishes

Dear Grandma in Cyprus,

It was lovely to speak to you yesterday and wish you a happy birthday, even though I have to point out it's very expensive to call you. I must say, though, that it wasn't very nice of you to take the call whilst swimming in your pool, as I don't have that luxury, especially just before I have to face another day at the office. Nor was it very nice of you to point out that for the umpteenth year on the trot, I am late with sending you a birthday card; I have at least put it in the post this year, and I think that is real progress. And it was especially harsh to mention that my brother sent his card on time. Sibling rivalry is never a great thing, especially when he gets the better of me.

Whilst I'm writing there are a few other things that irk, so I'd like to get them off my chest. It was very cruel to ring back later in the day to see if I'd called you again. I suspect you did this just so you could mention you'd been out. No doubt to see some friends, go shopping or spend some time at the beach. Some of us have to work you know. You might say that you've worked hard all your life so deserve some leisure and relaxation now. But I don't see it like that as I've got a long way to go until I can do the same.

Also I'd rather you stopped talking about the weather when we speak on the phone. As you know full well, it's always wet, soggy and grey here, and I don't need to know that it's sunny blue skies there, with temperatures in the mid-twenties even in winter. I think you do it just to taunt me. Churlish is the word that comes to mind.

And I'm not sure why you think it reasonable to tell us about the work which is being done at your house, particularly mentioning how quickly it gets done and at such a low cost. As you know full well, over here we have to put up with shoddy work, at high prices and it takes an eternity to get sorted. I think you're just boasting.

We're looking forward to coming over to visit later this year, so I want to make it quite clear that I expect to be able to use your house as a hotel, and have cooked breakfast every morning on the terrace. If you could make sure you cook us both a full meal in the evening as well, that would be fine. I hope you don't mind picking our clothes off the floor again, and driving us to see all the interesting places across the island. In return, we might buy you an ice cream on one day.

All the best

Your grateful youngest son

Black, blue and red all over

It's a thing with children...and I suspect boys especially, that they are prone to cuts, bruises, scrapes and aches.

Arriving home on Thursday I was greeted by a somewhat downtrodden and sullen lad. My quizical look was answered by the raising of arms to reveal some nasty scrapes on one arm, and evidently some pain in the other. He had decided to take his bike for a spin in the forest, and in one of his attempts to leap over a mound had gone head over heels and handlebars. Fortunately the gound was softish, and he always wears a helmet. Of course, some of this is my fault, for giving him the camera to video his exploits....sadly he didn't capture the crucial moment. I've always been concerned that solo-cycling is not a good idea, but I'm loathe to limit his enthusiasm and adventurous spirit. Life is not a rehersal is a phrase that's often bandied around in this house. Mind you it would be good to get to the intermission, and an encore would be even better.

Over excitement and and over abundance of enthusiasm have got him into scrapes before. At the olympic size swimming pool, the K2 in Crawley, with friends, he spent ages jumping off the top board doing somersaults and back and front flips, until he mis-judged the distance, coming down on his back with a noise that would wake the dead. I've never seen a water burn before. It's a sight to behold, and the pain was excruciating.

At a very young age, he came in through the front door, and saw me standing in the kitchen at the far end of the corridor. His pace was phenomenal, and it would have been better if he could have managed the corner, instead of running slap bang into the wall. Blood was everywhere, and there was a very quick trip to the Whittington Hospital A&E. The doctors thought his nose (such as small imps have) was probably broken, but there was nothing they could do; fortunately it healed well, without even a visit from social services.

In the first term at Bancroft's I was summoned to the school on more than one occassion due to bangs on the head which made it unwise for him to travel by public transport. And we have never quite got to the bottom of a pretty severe cut on the hand, that even two years later is still visible.

So all these things have caused some heartache, but I'd rather that than a child wrapped in cotton wool, too scared or dull to go and do anything adventurous. Indeed if it means his grown up years will be spent doing madcap adventures, that give me sleepless nights and anxious days, then I shall be a happy Dad.

You swine

No wonder the government has been in a panic about a swine flu pandemic. They've all been like pigs with their snouts in the trough with their expenses. Not that the next lot is likely to be any better.

Mission to Mars

There's a lovely story that does the rounds about the NASA satelite that was sent to Mars. Some of the work for this humanity-changing flight was done in the US, and some was done in Europe. The satelite crashed onto the red planet's surface, undoing several year's work, and wasting many millions of precious dollars. According to legend, the problem was that the Europeans worked in metric numbers and the Americans used good old imperial units, and no one spotted it. How stupid is that?

Of course, that is of no relevance whatsoever to my own endeavours to measure the kitchen over the Bank Holiday. I measured every wall bar one European style, and the last (the chimney breast) in good old inches. I have no idea why, and it was only spotted that 2+2 does not equal 5 when we got to the kitchen shop and the nice man who was designing our new kitchen couldn't get the walls to meet in the corner. We made some rash assumptions, and two and a half hours later we had a nice picture to take away with us. Fortunately, our assumptions were okish, so we have not crashed and burned, nor have we spent hard-earned money unwisely. Yet.

Birthday boy

Well after many, many pieces of advice (and they will all come in for anniversaries and Christmases to come), I found a present to suit the boy. A video camera that he can attach to his helmet, when cycling skiing or erm even swimming. An enormous sigh of relief to discover that I made the right choice....it was opened straight away and taken to school to film hoodlum things. I felt I was GOOD DAD for taking him breakfast in bed - it's just that he's not used to me standing in his door and bellowing his name to wake him up...so the poor lad fair hit the ceiling in shock/fright.

The evening was taken up with a trip to Brixton to see Doves (not THE Doves, evidently they don't like that). We were accompanied by Auntie Gwen who probably describes it far better than me. Even if I did enjoy torturing her by insisting we drove with the roof down, and could feed her paranoia that everyone was looking at us. The boy brought his best mate from school and a jolly time was had by all; even if the journey (in both directions) was a little more challenging than it should have been. Ag may have missed out some of the highlights - passing through 'Ackney Lay'on and Dawstun, cruising past my favourite strip club...not that I've ever been there, I just like the neon sign, and being waved at by a rather large man who felt the need to stop his BMW alongside ours (he was travelling in the opposite direction) and raise his middle finger in greeting.

The strangest thing about the gig...and it was a good one for sure...was the constant stream of people heading out to either the bar or the toilets...or perhaps it was both. Any ho, I managed to restrain myself from telling them all to sit down and just enjoy the music. Of course, I was only jealous because as driver I couldn't indulge.

So that's one birthday over for another year. Grandma in Cyprus is next...fortunately, no present buying challenges there. But I do hope that for the first time in living memory I'll remember to send her card in time. I won't but I can hope...I think she knows better and has come to realise that her offspring are an ungrateful bunch

Help!

Disaster looms as the boy's fourteenth birthday is on Friday. I'm delighted it's one step closer to him no longer being a teenager (yes I know there's plenty of years left to fill yet)...but I have no idea whatsoever, at all, in any way, shape or form of what to get him by way of a birthday present. My levels of despair are sent plummeting yet further with polite texts and requests from friends and family alike asking for suggestions. At least it means I am not alone, and hopefully if the ship of presents goes down, we'll all go down together. It's not helped by my self-imposed rule of not giving money or vouchers....I got enough of those as a youngster, so I have to just have to find something that is interesting, inspiring and will be appreciated.

It's not that I've not thought about it. I have, good and plenty. Morning noon and night. For months on end. But all to no avail. At this rate it might just be a mangled card which has been sitting in the garage shop for the last ten years, and a can of Castrol GTX.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

A question of perspective

This was an ad from The Guardian a couple of decades ago...actually more like three decades, probably.

It's remained a favourite, and I'm a daily Guardian reader to this day.

The boy has started his own blog...and if you look closely on my sidebar you'll find it listed. I give him free reign to read my blog (lord help me) and I read his from top to bottom. Usually I'll write my thing and he'll write his. Just occasionally our paths will cross. As it has done on this occasion.

Of course it's all a question of perspective. And if you can see two sides of an argument, you probably get the full picture.

Dads are rubbish

Having been posting for a round a year or so, I've had plenty of opportunity of seeing and reading loads of interesting blogs. One of the things that quickly became really obvious is that men and women are different. I know at my age (37, exactly the same as it has been for many, many years) I should have spotted that sooner, but sometimes I'm just not that observant. I am, after all, just a bloke.

Sweeping generalisations are always open to savage criticism, but hey ho, here we go. I am, after all not criticising, just making some observations. Women seem to be far more supportive than men...especially of other women, but in general as well. So when someone posts a dilema they're facing, comments made by women, are warm, gentle and supportive, where as the men use humour in a more deprecating way....I know, I do it myself. I'm so funny, I make myself laugh. But not necessarily anyone else.

There always seems to be a 'female/Mums blogging festival' going on somewhere, where as in the last year, I think 've only seen one for men/Dads...thank you Sticky Fingers. So the knowledge, bonhomie and camaraderie between women grows. Perhaps men don't need it, and that explains why we can go down the pub, share no more than a few grunts, yet have a great evening. Women are so engrossed in each other's conversations, that they have to continue them in the loo.

So it comes as a joy to find that sometimes Dads need to bond, and lo and behold there is Dad Club. http://dadclub.ning.com A place for Dad's to share stuff and other stuff. Of course, the first thing you'll notice is that it's not as busy as Piccadilly Circus, and it lacks a feminine touch...no cushions or pink things. But its a great place just to drop in. But you don't have to say anything...just the odd grunt or swear word will do. Just like the pub really. Now if only it had a pool table.

Who am I?

For a few short months between the rigours of school and the laxness of university I shared an office with someone who had the same name as me. Given that my name is neither Smith nor Brown, that was quite a coincidence.

This week, google launched something called 'similar images' which allows users to look for images that are visually similar to an existing result. For some reason this fascinated me, so I wanted to give it a go. Naturally I don't google my name very often (erm), but in this instance I wondered what might pop out of the digital ether. So here's a selction of people who share my identity on google:



I'm not bald, nor do I wear glases (anymore). And is that a vest?



Watch out Lewis Hamilton



Running for the bus probably



I'm always smiling



I wish I could



Award winning



It'll be the Mandarin link



I could never master the recorder let alone a saxophone



Getting down



No, I don't know either



At the back, still not me, and still wearing a vest



A tattoo? Are you kidding me



NB the DJ

Postal strike

When I was a young lad I remember a postal strike. I can't remember what caused it, but I do remember that it went on for months and months and months...in the same way that summer holidays used to last for ever, and every day was sunny. I think the leader of the postal workers was called Tom and he had a fabulous handlebar moustache. The worst thing about the strike for me was that I used to get a science partwork sent to me on a regular basis...I guess it was every fortnight, but that detail slips my mind now. And with the strike, I didn't receive it. And that was very disappointing. Once the strike was resolved, it started arriving again, and for amny years afterwards, long after the series had finished, the arrival of the post was very exciting.

In more recent times, and as my face has become a little more wrinkled and other parts of my body have begun to sag, the post has taken on a different meaning. Usually it consists of just bills or junk mail, or bits of official correspondence. And as I increased the number of propoerties I own the amount of post has become a torrent of unwanted paperwork, filled with nothing but bad news (at worst) or uninteresting information.

As a result I've become increasingly reluctant to look through it, and I guess I've developed a fairly finely tuned sense of spotting which envelopes need to be opened and the contents actioned. I guess I get it right around 85% of the time; the 15% has led me into some fairly difficult situations often only resolved by a nasty fight with a government bureaucrat or banker. On one occasion though, an envelope I wouldn't normally have touched was accidently opened to reveal a cheque for £2000.

This year, the situation had reached a critical point, with a pile of unopened post that was about five foot high. Some dating back to the last millenium. So rather shamefacedly, I've just paid someone to open every envelope and sort the contents into manageable files - each flat has a file, and within that the various suppliers and organisations associated with it. There's a pile of miscellaneous stuff that should be kept, but isn't easily categorised.

Sadly no more cheques were found, but equally Gwen (no, not Auntie Gwen) hasn't come running up with any threatening writs either. It's a great relief to have it done; the house is tidier for it and I can clear my conscience too.

But I wonder now if I'll be able to pluck up the courage to open every piece of mail that pops through the letter box, and deal with promptly as I should. Answers on a postcard please.