Responsible parenting

Last night was open evening at the boy's school. Parents and pupils of the Lower Fourth (public school talk I'm afraid, and sorry no idea what that is in the real world...he's half way through his third year). We were summoned as part of the process to choose GCSE's...although we've had the form for a couple of months now.

But it was a chance to listen to a very stiff master explain everything in the minutest detail. All the children (Children? most of them tower way over me) take 10 GCSEs. And not more. And they can only take the courses on offer. Evidently it's all about texturing. Which I've translated as this is the best way of ensuring the school achieves the best grades irrespective of what pupils and parents might want. Still no reason to be petty about it eh?

After the short speech, we all had the opportunity of visiting the sixth form common room where each subject had an exhibition stand. There was also wine and nibbles on offer to sustain us through the evening.

What I hadn't expected was that each teacher was desperately flogging their wares. I dread to think of the atmosphere in the staff room before and afterwards. Even the Reverend was pitching RE as the best foundation for a legal career...it's all about morals you see. Not that I can see any relevance to the legal profession myself.

I should now point out that the boy had firmly decided his options a couple of months ago, so he decided to treat it as a social event. Not to be outdone, I thought I should too, so headed to the bar, where I spent the evening pouring a fine red wine (well the fees are high enough to pay for it) down my throat. I should now also point out that I'm not much of a drinker. So I was enjoying myself....and did manage to engage one or two of the teachers and plenty of other worried looking parents in animated conversation. Though never about geography or history or Latin, or anything else which vaguely resembled academia.

The boy came over and suggested I "chat up...erm I mean chat to" his German teacher. At this point I should also mention that she had once attended an Old Boys dinner, and two of us had mistaken her for a girl that had been at the school at the same time as us. She had been HOT STUFF. In our drunken stupor we failed to notice that she was in her twenties, a couple of decades off the age she would be if she really was HOT STUFF. So we had engaged in earnest chatting up mode, as if we were still 14. She humoured us and has continued to do so ever since. Foolishly I had told the boy this story. And I'm glad to say she continued to humour me last night.

So the evening passed in a jolly way. The boy claims that in true St Trinians fashion the headmaster (she doesn't use the term mistress)was sozzled too..I'm not so sure. But given my head this morning I'm probably not in a position to judge.

The boy escorted me home with me keeping in a pretty straightish line. I'm pretty sure I didn't disgrace myself. I think.

Anyway its a great school. Really.

RTFM

Picture added for The Dotterel

You may remember the enormous motorbike I bought earlier this year. It's big fast and orange. And made in Austria by KTM. Although one dear friend has renamed it the MLC. You may wish to work that out for yourself. Its 1000cc engine is a bit of a step up from the 125cc Vespa I've been riding around on for the last six or so years.

I like cars, and I like bikes, but I don't really know very much about them. What I do know is what I think of as the basics...you know, generally a car has it's engine at the front (although I do have one that's put the engine behind your head), a wheel at each corner and so on. Dashboards are fairly straightforward..big dial in the middle that tells you by how much you're breaking the speed limit, a needle that tells you how hot the engine is (why should I care about that) and another needle that lets you know if you'll be pushing your precious car to the garage.

I have occasionally ventured under the bonnet of my various cars...changing spark plugs on a Cortina who's engine bay was illuminated like Blackpool Pleasure Beach because one of them was cracked, filled up the radiator when an engine got thirsty and topping up the oil on an MG (errr well MG Metro anyway) which could barely reach the end of the road without needing another litre of the golden stuff. Imagine how it faired on regular trips to see my Scottish girlfriend when I was living in Coventry.

However, it seems that motorbikes may be a little different. The dashboard..sorry instrument panel is hi-tech digital. So I know precisely whether I'm doing 29 or 31 in the city. I was somewhat confused by the fuel guage...a series of bars, a bit like the bars on your mobile phone that tells you how strong the signal is. The strange thing is it obstinately stays somewhere between half and three quarters full. Even when the fuel warning light comes on. Once consulted, the manual revealed that this is not in fact the fuel guage, but is indeed the temperature guage. Which should stay somewhere in the middle.

I spotted that there's a translucent tank with minimum and maximum markings on. The water was slightly below the minimum mark. And as I know this is not the windscreen washer bottle, I thought I should top it up. It's attached to the radiator, so taking the cap off and pouring anti-freeze in seemed the right course to take. Wrong. The fluid just doesnt go down. I rang the garage, "Can I ask a stupid question?" "That's what we're here for" they say. Well OBVIOUSLY you have to unscrew and remove two side panels to get to the cap to refill the tank. And if you put water directly in the radiator you'll cause an airlock, my brother says. Doh!

The manual is not half as interesting as Che Guevara's diaries which I'm reading at the moment. And I've not even got to the bit about the chain yet. Perhaps I should have started with his motorcycles diaries, and not his exploits in Cuba...

Crisis

We have a major crisis at home, which I think puts the banking crisis into perspective. I was surprised this morning that when I picked up the papers, it hadn't made the front page, pushing Gaza, the banks, Fred the Shred and Jade Goddie to their rightful place on page 7.

The boy has had a haircut and it's too short. Once upon a time, we used to go into the barbers and he'd ask to have a trim, about half an inch of the mop to drop on the hairdressers floor, so I took to standing behind and indicating the right length to make sure we got value for money.

However, that seemed to cause a degree of friction.

In fact more friction than the Shuttle faces when it returns to Cape Canaveral.

So I stopped doing it.

But this time, the barber took it on himslef to make the boy look smart. And indeed he does. But I think there are two issues, and I'm not sure which is the most important.

"Why didn't he do what I told him?" says the boy. Well don't ask me...you were managing this project all by yourself. You need to take charge, exert your leadership skills.

And the boy is very proud of his mop...so even though it looks so much better under his army cadet cap (which he's very pleased about), he doesn't like it. And he'll have his leg pulled rotten when he goes through the school gate this morning.

And don't you dare say it'll grow back. BECAUSE THAT IS A RIDICULOUS THING TO SAY.

So if you could just organise some aid convoys to our house, that would be appreciated. Thank you very muchly.

It's Lent

I'd like to say we're religious in our house. But we're not. The boy does exceptionally well in his religious studies lessons, but I've noticed that often his essays are along the lines of 'God doesn't exist, because....' When he was half the size he is now, he used to enjoy visiting the odd church or two, but I think that's because when we're younger anything that's bright and shiny exerts an unreasonable interest.

Anyway, the great thing about Lent, is that it kicks off with pancakes. And we love pancakes. A great feast before the famine....I mean fast. I even have an electric pancake maker...it's like an inverted frying pan that you dip in the mix. It's been a firm favourite for the last fifteen years, being one of those catalogue purchases that should slot into the category of 'Why?'

However, in fact like many other years, Shrove Tuesday managed to come round a bit quicker than expected, so I was less than organised. The pancake maker is in Brighton and we're in Buckhurst Hill. And I'm not the sort of chef that can toss his pancakes with a frying pan. So I made an emergency stop at Waitrose last night. The only thing they had was oversized (i.e. about the size of a side plate) Scotch pancakes. Fortunately, that seemed to fit the bill...the boy was well and truly satisfied. And that's what counts. I guess.

And as it's now Lent (which I'm told is actually 47 days as Sundays don't count), I've given up tea and coffee for the duration. That's quite a sacrifice (although I do actually try and do it once a year just to appreciate them all the more when I start imbibing again). However, already the consequences have been devastating...so tired that when I was the only one in the office this afternoon, I grabbed some 400 winks. Extremely hopeful the boy might run around after me this evening in my stricken state, laying on the sofa, cook dinner and generally tend to my every need. Bets can be laid at William Hills.

Parallel lines

We've been on holiday this week and I'm typing this when I should be snoozing or perhaps getting a massage to remove all my aches and pains. The boy and I have been skiing in the fairytale village of Megeve. I'm told the mountain is owned by the Rothschild family. When I grow up I'd like to own a mountain. It would be a nice addition to the back garden. Along with the gnomes.

The trouble with going away is that all the things I meant to write down I simply forget...even though I did take a little computer with me...it's just that the holiday got in the way.

We travelled by train from the newly discovered Ebbsfleet. I know it's newly discovered on two counts. The SatNav thought it was about an hour further away than the big station in the Kent countryside tended to indicate. And when we got there we discovered mammoths. Yes a quite extensive natural history display dedicated to proving that Ebbsfleet had been around a lot longer than the British Museum.



We arrived late in Paris, necessitating a costly ride in a less than official mini-cab. The jolly driver (if you read the personal ads, you'll know what that means) turned his CD up full blast...fortunately we both appreciate a bit of Youssou N'Dour. This was clearly a part time job...although he told us he'd been doing it for a decade; his other full time job was stunt driver for films such as French Connection or perhaps the french series of films Taxi! (I can lend you the DVDs if you like). The boy grinned, I cringed, and the police frowned when they spoke to the driver...on a couple of occasions.

On the train, the boy and I travelled in separate compartments. Just like royalty. Nothing to do with a somewhat late booking. We kept in touch by text. His first one read "im with a nice family they helped me with my bag =) im worried my feet smell =S"

Over the course of the week, we had some highlights....



Our glass runeth over...one too many drinking games

Drinking unusually featured heavily in our holiday. Me not the boy! (yet). One afternoon, we did a runner from a bar after downing vin chaud. When I say runner, I mean saunter having tried to no avail to pay. Really. Yes really. Not done that since I was a teenager.


Our friends dining on the mountain

We managed to let a waiter throw a glass of water over himself...a very serious waiter indeed who picked up a wine glass not realising it was half full of water, he spun it in his hand soaking himself, And then spent the next minute looking variously at the glass, the ceiling and the window trying to work out what happened. We collapsed.


The boy posing with friend on top of a house roof

Some years ago, I had promised the boy a pair of skis, and of his own choice he's waited until he'd grown enough. As we came out of the shop where we bought them, our friend decided to take a picture from the other side of the road. The continuous line of traffic seemd to put paid to the idea. Until a car screeched to a halt. The driver grinned, his wife looked less than pleased. Our friend took the the picture, the traffic started moving again. Who says the French are all bad?!!



Whilst we were away, we had the builders round. We moved into this little victorian cottage (properly translated as end of terrace workers house) a couple of years ago. It was well decorated and meant that we didn't need to do anything. But the observant will have spotted the York stone fireplace, some may have previously seen the swirly patterns on bothe curtains and the carpets. Yes it was ideal for the retired couple who lived here before us. In our absence, the artex walls of the staircase and upper corrider were being replastered. I should perhaps thought it through a littel more. Half way through the week, the builder admitted missing an important delivery. He didn't hear the door bell because "It was very noisy". At that point I realised my first port of call on our return would be the neighbours. And indeed it was. They were charming as ever, but not sure we'll still be on their Christmas card list.

Oh and I must mention the boy (again), who's been working hard for the last eight years, and achieved a 9* award for his skiing. That's the best you can get...ski instructor standard I'm told. Not bad for a 13 year old. And I feel my chest swell with pride.

Suitably rewarded/nothing like a bit of crumpet

I've won an award and I'm very pleased.

I have to say I can't post it here, and nor was it quite given directly.
But an award is an award. I'm sure.

At school, the muggles chatted amongst themselves and the important quote is "Well Charlie, apart from The Boy's Dad you've got the coolest mum."

Now I'm think that means that I'm cool. That's cool. But it also makes me a mum. So not sure if I should start wearing a frock?

Unfortunately the boy doesn't exactly know how I'm a cool Mum. But he's happy that I am. And me too.

And on a different note altogether:

"The Boy, where are the crumpets I bought"

"I've eaten them"

"But you don't like them, you said so. I bought them for me"

"I know I don't like them. I was hungry.

"But if you don't like them why didn't you eat the fruit, the cheese or the biscuits in the fridge. Or have toast."

"I was hungry"

I'll just go an chew my arm off then.

And then there's:

"Can you turn the music down, I can't hear myself think."

"But I can barely hear it"

"But Dad, you're disturbing the neighbours"

"Oh right, sorry. Oops."

Crash bang wallop

We were woken up at eight minutes past six on Friday by an enormous thunder clap. The house shook and from down the corridor I heard a slightly shaky and questioning voice, "What's happening Dad?" In proper parental fashion I said in 'I am master of the situation' tone, "Don't worry, it's just thunder." I said this looking out of the window as it snowed heavily. In truth I've never experienced a snow thunderstorm. It was very exciting, and it set me thinking about how as we get older we get fewer and fewer new experiences, and how lucky the young are because there is so much that is new and exciting for them. And often as you get older, new experiences are not to be welcomed either because they are bad, or because they are not welcome and challenge our life view. So I'm very pleased to have been woken up at 6.08 on Friday and look forward to my next exciting new thing; meanwhile the boy will continue to take these things in his stride.

Two of a kind

Not to be outdone by the boy doing his homework (actually I think he's just chatting on line to his friends) in his new helmet (see my last entry), I have decided to type this update whilst wearing my new helmet. It's carbon fibre...and dead sexy, and has a thing inside to cover my nose so it doesn't steam up when I have the visor down. Most importantly though it has a five star rating, which is (evidently) two more than my previous 'lid'. So on the off chance I fall off the sofa this evening (and because I've got man flu, I could collapse at any moment) I am twice as likely to survive.



Boys. They never grow up.

Danger, danger!

Homework has become a hazardous undertaking in our house, hence the boy decided on appropriate wear to finish off the maths on Sunday night. Nothing whatsoever to do with either the snow gently falling outside, or that this was a Sunday morning purchase, ready for our trip in ten days time!

And of course going out on Monday morning was equally hazardous. At least in a fashion sense. So the designer coat was entirely appropriate for spending all day romping in the snow with a dozen friends. Only marginal contrition upon his return swathed in a soggy lump of wool. But thank heavens he wore his ski goggles...the happy police would be pleased.



I wish I had the same sense of excitement that a thirteen year old has!

Petards'n'pants

"Son, can you get my washing out of my washing basket, bring it down and we'll pop it in the machine with yours"

"Sure Dad, no problem"

Wow...haven't I done well to train him up to domestic bliss, I think.

"Dad, I don't mean to be critical or anything, but there are six pairs of my underpants in YOUR washing basket. You told me not to wear your pants, aren't you being a bit hypocritical?"

"Those are the pants that you leave crumpled up on the floor beside the shower every morning, and never pick up. Even when I tell you to. Even when I leave them in a pile outside your bedroom door."

"Oh, right"

Five years along

Today (29th January) is our fifth anniversay..when it became certain, no turning back, that the boy was going to live with me permenantly...or at least until he grows up enough to venture out into the big world. So I thought I would take this opportunity to post some pictures from the last half decade (sorry utterly self-indulgent)...every day has been an amazing experience...and I'm not sure who's learnt more...



Xmas in Megeve...just a month before everything changed

On Newport Transporter Bridge the day after his mum's funeral. If you've never been on a transporter bridge do try it



With his sister in Portsmouth...one of the few times I managed to get them together



First time on a motorbike...monkey bike



And with Charlie Boorman



That sinking feeling - nearly learning to sail



Under the arches - living in Borough



Winning the javelin sports day



erm Madonna, outside our office



Camel riding in Egypt



Three generations



At the Natural History Museum...can you see the second face?



Better than a bike any day



Rugby...his great love as a half-welshman



Another great love...in Megeve



Giants Causeway...man and boy



Portmeiron this summer



And that's enough!

Full circle

This is a Singer Chamois - the posh version of the Hillman Imp.



It was a rather natty little car produced by the Rootes Group, and is a less well remembered competitor to the Mini. Whilst the Mini won the affections of the buying public, the Singer Chamois, never came close to achieving the same fame. It did, however, help bankrupt the company that made it - much like the Mini helped bankrupt British Leyland.

We had a Singer Chamois when I was a boy and I loved it. It was a rather elegant Bournville chocolate brown with a sporty white stripe along the side. It was Grandma in Cyprus' first car after she passed her test and was bought by my father after he failed to persuade her of the virtues of a Triumph Herald Convertible. Far too racy I think. The Singer was fab, and as far as I remember let us down only the once - the accelerator cable broke. So Grandma in Cyprus was sternly instructed how to drive the car to the garage without an accelerator. At 5mph. I don't think the other cars on the road appreciated it very much. It used to regularly take us down from Hertfordshire to sunny Eastbourne to GinC's mother. So that'll be Great Grandma by the sea. And it was long before the M25 was even a glimmer in some road planner's eye. Our Singer Chamois' registration number was MYH 583D.

And this is a KTM Super Duke.



A 990cc piece of unsurpassed Austrian engineering. It's very noisy. And when I pluck up the courage will be very quick. Indeed. The boy loves it. And soon it will take me long distances. It too has been bought by my father. Or at least with some of the money he left in his still to be resolved will. The registration number is GX 58 MYH.

And how fitting is that?

Muddle Aged (2)

Well I've been goaded into this, so I take no responsibility whatsoever....

You know you're (a) middle-aged (woman) when:

You wear your daughter's mini-skirts and think you look like her

Your make-up bag is twice the size it used to be, but it gets used twice as quickly

You drive a beige car called Penny, but tell everyone how sporty it is

You want to mother the boys in the latest boy band

You think the boys in the latest boy band will fancy you

You stop waiting for 'the one'

You wear a one piece swimsuit because you think you should, not because it's the height of fashion

You can look at a middle-aged man and know that you're better than him, but know you shouldn't tell him

Middle age

I know I shall be in trouble for this, but...

...I was having a conversation the other day, and the topic of 'middle age' came up. I can't think why. After all,I'm 37, and have been that age for some long time now. So no prospect or intention of ever reaching middle age.

Any way, SHE said:You know you are a middle aged man when...
You buy a motorbike
You wear a stripy scarf looped around your neck
You wear vertically striped shirts
When young women in bars talk to you, you think you still have it
You think trying to hold in your tummy fools anyone

Now, I think she's wrong, because men NEVER know when they're middle-aged. Unless they were born middle aged, in which case they have been wearing beige cardigans for a very long time indeed and are proud of it.

As the boy reminded me this evening, Bill Oddie once said, "You know you are middle-aged when your daughter's best friend looks at you. And all she's thinking is, 'You're my best friend's Dad'.

Some indications of the progression of middle-age must be, when you try and do something you could do 20 years ago and it comes as a surprise that you can't do it now. I wonder what that could be. When you come home from work, and you're asleep on the sofa by 8.30...every night. When you can't understand the texts you get from anyone more than five years your junior...let alone from The Boy When the video recorder is beyond you. When you still enjoy repeats of the New Avengers, Minder and The Persuaders.

The reason this conversation took place will become all too apparent soon enough.

But the killer end to the conversation was when I was asked, "So, how do you know if you're a middle-aged woman?" Probably best not to answer methinks.