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.

Sporting heroes

Saturday is school sports day and I've been instructed to attend from the start at 9.30 all the way through to the eventual end as the sun begins to takes its leave for the day. My attempts to be let off on the basis that some events happen during the previous week, and the boy's only race on Saturday is the relay were brushed aside on the understanding that he is team captain. Not sure how that equates to my attendance, but evidently I must show the same commitment as him. I have a feeling that my intention of taking iPod and good book will be met with disapproval...but perhaps I can make myself useful as unofficial House photgrapher. It had better not be raining.

His star is in the ascendent, having already come third in the 1500m and for the second year on the trot winning the javelin...an unusual talent inherited from his mother who threw for the county - amazing what parents pass on to their offspring. Seruptitious questions of whether I ran the 1500m were met with blanks on my behalf as they were clearly aimed at assesing whether he was beating me (yet again)...I decided to let pass his comment/question "But you did win the cross country didn't you?" as this is his interpretation and I have only ever said I ran in the school team...generally my performance kept me towards the back of the field, but I feel a clear sense of responsibility to keep him on his toes......

Lead by example

At the grandfather's funeral, I gave a short oration. Accustomed as I am to speaking in public, this was a particular challenge...avoid the quivering lip, the emotional hesitation and to say that the grandfather may have been much loved, but was hardly a shining example of fatherhood. I settled on a lighthearted canter through some reminisces of highlights, low lights and just moments in time. The key phrase was that a father should inspire by the things they do well, and children should learn from their father's mistakes.

This weekend was the London to Brighton cycle ride...unfortunately the boy is still too young as you need to be into the second year of teenageship to qualify....next year then. However, in the spirit of the boy having a new cycle (Ironhorse) and my one (Scott) just coming back from being serviced, we decided to check out our cycle legs. Our route to Cuckmere Haven, some 17 miles away, took us along the sea front and directly into the 27,000 charity riders. Directed by smiling, enthusiastic yet firm marshalls straight into the finishing straight we were claqpped and cheered as we tried to shrink smaller and smaller. Maybe we should have grabbed a medal, or at least a free bottle of water but honour dictated that once we'd crossed the finishing line we pedalled as fast and as hard as we could. Hopefully an inspiring mistake...and a tale that went down at both school and office on Monday morning.

Much further on, and after climbing a particularly steep hill on the Downs, we came across a sign dictating 'No cycling'. A wry comment from Dad about how could they let us come this far and only then tell us not to pedal, was met by some pretty harsh comments from walking woman about how we shouldn't be off roading. Sudden loss of humour led to the comment that she should grow up or die. Cutting comments I do well...but perhaps these are things the boy should not learn from.

Household chores

Ironing is the worst chore of all..no sooner has the iron cooled, than there is a new pile of smelly, crumpled clothes waiting to to be washed and de-creased. A year ago the purchase of a steam generator iron made the arduous task a little easier and more interesting for about as long as it took me to realise that the iPod whilst doubtless convenient, still played exactly the same music collection that was beginning to weary when played on the CD...and the shiny new fully-featured mobile phone still received the same (few) calls from the same people that I'd been in conversation with for the last twenty years.

Faced with the challenge last night of either doing the ironing, or the Dysoning, the boy chose the iron. Strange choice, but in his own words 'I like ironing'. Twenty odd shirts later he was done...whilst my cleaning efforts finished ten minutes before. The shirts were mostly crease-free and certainly well-hung. And the transformation of my evening from one of forced-labour to one of beery indulgence was complete. Long may the boy find the household duties something as new and exciting as the first time he went to the Science Museum so that selfishly I can have a chunk of r'n'r when I return from the labours of the office.

Like father Like son Like son's son

So the blog hesitated for a couple of weeks...life was interupted with the not unexpected death of the grandfather after five weeks in hospital. Pneumonia finally got him, but a decade of Parkinsons had done for him really. The boy's reaction was harsh until it was pointed out that the books he was currently reading were his grandfather's. I guess that the death of a 78 year-old who you barely know, and whose mental faculties were close to those of a five year old, is nothing by comparison to the passing of your mother. However, there can be upsides to death. Not the least of which is the funereal gathering of the relatives. Our family has grown distant over the years...a combination of growing up and growing away, family disagreements and divorced parents and poorly established relationships at a younger age. So the boy has never met most of them...my offer to collect two sisters and a brother for a journey from one end of the country to another put many things right...it's amazing that eight hours of conversation can be sustained with hardly any effort; interupted only by the inconvenience of the cremation procedings and the shedding of a few tears. The great uncle has matured well...and pictures of him in uniform for National Service were impressive. A brother that perished during the Korean War (tho he was in Malaya) were equally valuable in building an honourable ancestory. Tales of youthfulness...and a lovers lane in Hornchurch were eye-opening. The two sisters were equally amusing...especially the one who at the age of 70 has picked up her latest toy boy...and was clearly in for a treat that night.

Promises of meeting again 'soon' will hopefully be fulfilled and will justify the £5 investment in signing up to genesreunited to build the slowly growing family tree.

Porn again

My older brother was always a great source of naked women from an early edge. Perhaps his over eager interest of members of the opposite sex accounts for him having some six or seven children...at the last count. No doubt his offerings has encouraged my own healthy appetite for the fairer sex. I remember both magazines and even some Polaroid pictures...the magazines being of the 'tits and fanny' variety, whilst the photographs were somewhat more graphic, and a good substitute for sex education in class. My interest in sex stimulated at a young age has stayed with me throughout my life...and I've had a healthy number of girlfriends...or at least bed fellows. I have to say though that sometimes, celluloid girls are a lot easier than flesh and blood.

One day arriving home from school, I was seated in the living room, and to my horror, laying on top of the magazine rack were my brother's and my girlie mags...if I remember rightly, the Polaroids weren't there (thank heavens)...a somewhat stilted and embarrassed conversation with our mother followed...but I can't for the life of me remember what was covered. Clearly it didn't have the impact it should have done, as I've been reaching for the top shelf ever since...well not for a while, but the principle is still there.

I've been quite liberal and trusting in allowing the boy free-reign on his laptop...on the odd occasion I've checked there's been nothing untoward - until this weekend. A check onto some of the web sites revealed some pretty naked women...if I'd lingered longer I may have seen to what extent they were showing off their bodies, and to what extent they were enjoying themselves. Impressively enough for a boy that's top of class in English, he'd returned several times to a web site called Literotica...not sure that it's up to the boys standard of writing...but it was pleasing to see that words rather than pictures seemed to be the destination of choice.

The much planned conversation with the boy about the luscious ladies took a more rambling approach than expected...and I'm glad to say both of us kept our heads well down and eyes averted. But I'd like to think that the point was firmly made - nudity is banned when you're thirteen because it is much more corrupting than when you're seventeen years and three hundred and sixty six years. So the short and short of it is that there's nothing wrong with porn...ranging from bikini-clad girls on the covers of boys mags to page three girls, all the way through to full on sex in magazines and probably more importantly easily viewed on the interweb. BUT...anything that involves violence or degradation is wrong. Full stop. Women are humans...and the celluloid sex you see is fantasy performed by actresses - on screen they are always 'up for it'...but see them on the street and they are humans again with mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters they have good days and bad days and they deserve as much respect as anyone and everyone else. Look, when you're older, but not too often and keep your mind on the more important things in life.

With parental controls in place, the computer is returned tomorrow.

It all depends on your viewpoint

There was an advert...oh probably fifteen or more years ago now. It ran on TV and showed a thug pushing over a smart-suited business man. The ad showed the same scene from several angles - the thug was chasing after the man, the thug was trying to steal the briefcase. The final angle looked up and showed scaffolding falling from a crane and the thug was simply a good samaritan pushing the man to safety. One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. To a short person, the man of average stature is tall, to the lanky, he is short. And so on. It all depends. To an adult, a 13 year old is still young, inexperienced and a child...may be with the physical ambitions of an adult, may be with the sense that will get them to adulthood. But still a child. To another thirteen-year old, though that youth can be grown-up, thoughtful, mature and someone to be looked up to. And the point of this? After almost three weeks the boy brought home the cards he'd been given by his school friends. When I put them up I laughed as there was something so glaringly obvious about each and every one of them. All the adults had sent the boy an array of child-appropriate birthday cards, whilst his friends sent him adult humour, thoughtful and simply most tasteful greetings. My card to him was a picture of a racing motorbike going hell for leather round a track; a friend sent him one with a black and white image of a vintage bike. I know which card I would keep. Sometimes you just need to change your perspective to get the best view! And by the way the ad I mentioned at the start was for The Guardian

It's a father's responsibility

In many a film, Dad has made a man of his offspring by paying for the local tart to finnish his education. Never been quite sure of this approach myself...but then my approach of enquiring gently after the school sex education lesson, didn't seem to be quite spot on either. Nor did the thirty second response to "Dad, what is masturbation"; nor even the giggled explanation when premature ejaculation was mentioned on the TV recently. Hopefully, his education will be complete by these snatches of information which will come together like a well made jigsaw puzzle, rather than ending up like one of Picasso's finest. My feeling is much encouraged by the enthusiasm of women to disrobe on the streets these days - a couple of years ago the policewoman strippergram at the local Nandos was perfect - she was unceremoniously dumped outside in nothing more than a G-string by the irate management. This weekend, The Brighton Festival gave us a lunchtime Burlesque show with two performances culminating in the unexpected site of lots of naked female flesh and some fairly insincere modesty. Eyes on stalks, couldn't help but betray over active male hormones. The boy looked as though he was quite interested too.

Boys and toys

Boys have always enjoyed taking things to pieces and then attempt to put them back together again. In my day it was old valve amplifiers, reel to reel tape decks found in the loft or garage...and when you get a little older motorcycles, with their guts spread all over the living room floor. Swots and creeps would be kind enough to put a sheet down (usually mum's best Egyptian linen) to protect the carpet and furniture, but in general, an oily handprint or greasy smeer were thought to add to the decor. Usually volcanic eruptions would follow. I'm glad to say that times have changed, and last week's victim of teenage investigatory spirit was the X-board - like a skate board, but it pivotes along an axle which runs front to back. Oh and yes, it actually only has two wheels - one front and one back. So in fact it's just as similar to a rollerblade as it is to a skate board. The boy has discovered that removing one of the centre bolts is easier done than putting it back...naturally it was an overheard conversation with a friend that put me on the case. Inevitably, the offending bolt has also been displaced. "Where is it? I know I put it on this shelf?" Well don't look at me I didn't know it wasn't still part of the board mate.... Now where's that spanner - I just need to go and adjust the stand on my scooter -perhaps if I take it off, I can sort it out?

The boys watch the girls watch the boys watch the girls

Have you ever seen that film...one of Hugh Grant's I think, but don't quote me....where he borrowed a child to attract the attention of the opposite sex? It's true that it always pays dividends to have a child in tow...I remember well that taking the boy to the park meant I could always strike up a conversation with someone I would like to be the target of my affections. Same principle as owning a dog I think. Trouble was I think they always thought of me more as a parent material more than hot lover.

That was then and this is now. But now the boy can look me in the eye, it's all a bit different Walking down the street, or driving along with the roof down, definitely still draws the attention of the opposite sex. May be it's me, but just the same as policemen look younger now, so too do the women. But of course it has slowly dawned on me that now they're just as likely to be looking at him as they are me. Truth be known, they seem to be paying closer attention to him than me..perhaps they'll have an older sister for me?

Out on the town/home alone

Wow what a bank holiday. Dinner with friends on Friday, cinema to see the excellent Ironman movie and then back to a mates place on Saturday, quiet day in the garden Sunday to recover...and today an all day party starting at 11 in the morning. Woah..not bad at all. That was the boy's itinerary...mine was to act as banker and taxi driver. It's a lesson in life, that your kids grow up sooner than you think...often leaving you in the lurch having built your life around them. My challenge is to find my feet as an independent adult again...and find my friends just as I did when I divorced. Onwards and upwards!

Gooseberry fool

It became increasingly difficult to work ou what was happening for the boy's birthday. In desperation, the suggestion that I pick up the tab for a Pizza Express celebration with a few of his closest friends seemed the best bet...but it was only on the morning of the event that he confirmed it was actually happening. Not a problem, other than I was up north...so later that day a somewhat stumbling phone call to said restaurant led to agreement that the boys would be welcome and a phone call would result in suitable amounts being deducted from my bank balance. An early departure, meant that I rolled up at the meal mid-Four Seasons. Smiles all round, but clearly I was not part of the gang and never would be....and horror of horrors there was a GIRL there. It was the mythical Jasmine...someone much talked about and who has caused me much expense on telephone bills. Much mumbling and embarassment and I made my excuses, returning only when summoned like the minicab service I am destined to be for the next half decade.

Size matters

We moved to our cottage eighteen months ago. It was quite a change from a luxury two bed fourth-floor apartment in drop-dead trendy Borough High St to edge of Epping Forest three/four bedroom victorian cottage. We're surrounded by faux-Elizabethan mansions with shiny BMWs, Porsches and Bentley's parked in their drive-thru driveways. It was the first place we looked at at and we both loved it...in my case because it didn't mock the Tudors and in the boy's case he found comfort in a strange similarity to his Mum's home.

Now we're at a time when everyone is having parentally supervised parties for their birthday, we've hit a problem. They all live in grandiose dwellings and you don't step through the front door into the sitting room. To bring them round to our place, with one or two exceptions, would be a humiliation. It's something I understand, having been driven to the same school by my mother in a very tatty fifteen year-old Ford Anglia hand painted in duck egg blue by my brother using a brush from the then equivalent of B&Q. I always wanted her to park round the corner, and when we arrived I shot out faster than Red Rum at the starting gate.

With next birthday looming I thought I'd solved the dilema by suggesting taking a group to the theatre to see Spamalot followed by culinary favourite Pizza Express. He seemed delighted at the suggestion, but a reluctance to reveal a guest list was a sure sign that all was not right. Sure enough and after much coaxing this weekend, he said that this isn't what he wanted...but he did want them down to Brighton. I readily agreed that our annual summer beach patrty, dodging the rain showers in July would be fine, but in May it just wasn't going to happen. So here we are, a fortnight before the big day and nothing planned. I can see tears and tantrums coming, but hopefully by contrast the boy will remain calm and philosophical.