Wiseman and Women

Well Christmas has almost arrived and, as the Carol says, 'the hopes and fears of all the years' seem to be held in it's magic.

Our hopes are that we humans might have learnt from the previous year's mistake and do better in the future. Our fears are perhaps that it will be just more of the same.

So what can we gain from the Christmas story?

There were shepherds, which doesn't seem unreasonable seeing that the central location was a stable. A GNVQ in animal care would seem a handy thing to have at such a time.

We have angels running an all night party. The fact that they started their conversation with the phrase 'do not fear' shows something of their commitment to a good show.

We have magi from the east on some kind of first century gap year. They had followed a star that was pointing to a significant event. Gap year students are so easily lead by bright lights.

Then we have a young couple with a new baby living in a single room. They had already had transport issues leading them to have to travel by donkey.

Perhaps they should have known that Christmas is a busy time to take a journey.

It has the makings of a great story.

So what have we made of it. Well for one it has been relegated to being a U certificate. It's been cleaned up for the kids.

Perhaps we have so overdosed on finding tea towels for prospective shepherds that Herod's attempt at infanticide has been left on the cutting room floor.

The typical school nativity play seems a long way from such things.

The central characters were in essence asylum seekers in a foreign land for a few years after the arrival of their first born.

I wonder if the locals ever blamed them for 'taking our jobs'. I could imagine the local carpenters union being up in arms about the whole thing.

The most amazing thing is that the story has lasted for two thousand years.

Perhaps the most shocking aspect is that it is full of themes that seem all two familiar to our modern life.

What we need is a fat guy in a red outfit to distract us from such serious thoughts. Throw in a few elves and the sound of slay bells and we will soon forget that the shepherds were given a serious fright by what they saw. Let alone that the Wisemen had to return home by a different route.

I wonder if the nativity story still has the power to give us a wake up call and demand a change of direction for 2010.

Wise men (and women) take note!

Happy Mid-Winter Festival

Season's Greetings! Or so the card said, almost inviting complaints from the purists as about the real meaning of Christmas.

This doesn't surprise me; as far back as I can remember it has been surrounded by a certain amount of controversy.

There was a headline back in the seventies declaring that it would be more historically accurate to hold the festival in March. I suppose it would give us a few extra shopping days if we moved it.

Here we are a few decades later with a local museum upsetting a church leader by renaming it a mid-winter festival.

What are we to think?

I suppose most of us don't really care in the midst of our busyness and merry making.

The season's songs don't help us to get a true picture.

We Three Kings tells us the number of wise men who came from the east when the earliest story doesn't actually reveal how many.

Away in a Manger informs us that this child was so unusual 'no crying he makes'.

The song 'I Saw Three Ships' has Mary and the child on a sea voyage when Bethlehem is land locked.

Before you get the idea that it is only the traditional songs that offer simple and misleading ideas let us consider some more recent offerings.

Roy Wood tries to get us to believe that he wishes 'It Could Be Christmas Everyday'; a sentiment we are happy to sing when merry but none of us truly believe.

Then there is the immensely selfish song that begins 'Oh the weather outside is frightful'. After teasing us with how warm the fire is, it challenges the weather to Let it snow. Fine if you are inside in front of burning coal but not if you are stuck on the M62.

Even Saint Bob and Monk Midge miss the mark in their modern anthem that raised millions for charity. Perhaps we should forgive its factually incorrect message that there 'wont be snow in Africa this Christmas time'.

So what is the reason for the season? Some might say its all about the partying. Others might say its all about the gifts. It might be all about the family. My Grandma used to say it is all about the kids. She was nearly right; it is all about the child.

Jungle Rat

Just a few days ago Gino De Campo was crowned King of the Australian Jungle and was immediately arrested for eating a rat.

It's a good job that it's reality TV otherwise you wouldn't believe it!

For those who haven't been watching I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, Gino is an Italian TV chef who has managed to gain more popularity than a boxer, a snooker player, and lady who cleans toilets on the telly. All of whom entered the show as a personal challenge and not to gain publicity.

I am not sure what rights rats have in Australia, or what organisations are set up to protect them, but it seems he ate the wrong type of rodent. This strikes me as rather odd seeing that it took place in the land of the barbecue where meat is king.

It wasn't as of he just hit it on the head and took a bite; he used his culinary skills to turn it into a dish fit for any alternative eating establishment.

Anyway someone was upset and complained, meaning that Gino was in trouble.

I wonder what his defence might be should it get to court. Surely his new found status as King would go a long way to ensuring his freedom.

The precedent has already been set: In Britain it is an offence to eat swan unless of course you are the reigning monarch or she has given her approval to do so.

In truth his excuse will probably be that he was hungry after spending a couple of weeks in the jungle on limited rations.

The result of any court case will most likely depend on the make-up of the jury. If they are mostly vegetarians he will no doubt be given a lengthy sentence. If, however, he is tried in front of students he will surely be forgiven: they, of all people, know how hunger can drive them to eating all manner of strange food combinations.

There is talk that the rat related complaint was made because of the suspicion that it might be a tame specimen. That perhaps it had been taken out of its normally secure environment and placed in the jungle to add amusement to the dull lives of millions of viewers. That it had become a mere commodity in the TV ratings war.

Not much different than the contestants then!

Hairy Top Lip

Christmas approaches fast and not only are we faced with all the pressure of what presents to buy we have to decide what to eat for our celebration meal.

It seemed so easy when was younger; it was just a case of turning up and, as if by mum magic, the food appeared.

Now most of the responsibility is ours because we are supposed to be adults.

Another pressure of this festive season is what we should wear for the Christmas parties. The surgery that keeps my wife busy as a nurse for most of the week have decided upon a theme to aid us in our choice. This year we are encouraged to don 1920's attire.

My wife seems to have it sussed but I feel limited to bringing out my tuxedo again. In light of this I decided to add a little challenge to the ensemble by including a moustache. I could have bought one from the local fancy dress store but my wife suggested that I might grow one.

This appealed to me for a number of reasons. Firstly, I haven't had a muzzy for over twenty years and the idea of growing one intrigued me. Mrs M had always been negative toward the idea but now it was her suggestion.

The second reason is that when I was a teenager I had a handle bar moustache which I lost within two-weeks of going out with my future wife. I was proud of it but I wanted to impress her more than fighting to keep it.

I need to point out that back in the day such facial hair was fashionable and this was before the village people made it in the UK charts, just.

Anyway, for the last two weeks I have been holding back from shaving my top lip. As an extra bonus I have allowed the growth to form the shape of a handle bar.

At first Mrs M didn't notice the extra hair but when she did she was quick to voice her disapproval. It seems that the passage of time has not softened her feelings towards the look.

I tried to appease her by saying that it was only for a bit of fun but it didn't convince her and for two of three days she found plenty of opportunities to make comment.

I resisted for a while until eventually she broke my resolve. She looked at me for a moment and then said that she found it interesting that unlike the hair on my top lip the handlebars were growing out grey.

So without objection I have shaved them off and left the remains of what might turn out to be an authentic 1920's muzzy.

All I need now is a monocle, a hand full of hair gel, and a kiss curl. Bring on the Charleston!

Inked - the old fashioned rebellion

We spent most of Sunday discussing tattoos. Not in any academic way you understand. But in the context of our third daughter's wish to get inked.

She is in her early twenties and so is grown up enough to make her own decision; at least this is what we told ourselves as we looked at the proposed design.

Mrs M and I were married when we were twenty and back then we felt that we were old enough to make such a life-changing decision. Now, however, twenty-one seems still so very youthful.

And so it is that we gaze at the intricate autumn leaf pattern that will soon adorn our daughter's back and want to be both supportive and cautious at the same time.

We reminisced about our journey towards being married. The fact that we made our decision less than twelve months after beginning to court, (yes it once was called courting), amazed our girls and seemed to put the tattoo choice in some perspective.

Even so Mrs M couldn't resist suggesting that it might be better to have one that was a little smaller to start with but daughter number three was fully committed to the cause and was not for turning.

I was tempted to try a bit of reverse psychology and suggested that my bride had the same design done on her back in order to make a matching pair. I felt sure that this would put her off; after all they don't like to wear the same clothes as their mother never mind the same permanent body art. She saw through my test and so we moved on to discuss other matters.

Its not that I am against such things, in fact when done tastefully they can look rather good. It is just the sense of permanence that they suggest.

If you dye your hair bright pink then you can make a change with relative ease. If you grow a beard you are only one shave away from seeing you chin again.

Ink is for life; ask Robert Nesbitt. He is the Newcastle fan who had the image of footballer Andy Cole reproduced on his thigh only two days before his hero signed to join Manchester United.

There must be nothing worse than having an out-of-date design permanently placed on your epidermis. I suppose the only issue my daughter will face is that her autumn leaves might clash with summer.

A little later I suggested to my wife that I might get inked before my fiftieth birthday next year; joining in with the moment she asked me what I might have done. I thought for a while and then, in the light of my growing bald patch, my aching limbs, and my middle-aged spread, it occurred to me.

I will get a Tattoo of a Best Before Date on my forehead. If you are going to be out-of-date you might as well be upfront about it.

Wifely Editorial Control

Last Saturday we spent a pleasant day at my eldest daughter's new house
on the outskirts of Doncaster.

I knew that amongst the energetic conversations, the good food, the
cups of coffee, would be the need for Mrs M to take photographs.

She has always felt the need to do this going back to the days when the
word 'negative' meant more than the contents of a Simon Cowell review.
These days she has far more access to equipment that will record every
smile on offer. Now we have the blessing, or curse, of digital.

On Saturday my bride forgot to take her camera so I had hoped that we
might have got away with it. But her new mobile phone has the facility,
along with many other functions that have nothing to do with long
distance conversations, to take photographs.

Mrs M took them as we arrived. She snapped as we ate, much to
he disgust of her daughters who, not unreasonably, insisted on being
given the chance to swallow their food and smile first. She took them whilst we watched telly.

Before the end of our visit, she turned into her version of a
wedding photographer and proceeds to set people in groups so that
everyone feels included.

Then, before I had the chance to escape she hands me the camera and
instructs me in the art of taking pics of her proudly posing with our
precious girls.

I don't really mind this, because I too am proud of them and love to
see them all together.

The problem is that she never likes any of the shots I take. She
compares them to the ones that she produces and says that I don't
compose them correctly. I either stand to close or I stand too far away.

I refrain from suggesting that the only difference between our output
is that she is missing from hers.

I don't make this comment because her presence ruins the look of them: quite
the reverse as she is beautiful.

The problem is that she is over critical of herself in photographs. In this she is joined by our daughters, who all take it in turns to look through each slide and exercise editorial control.

I am quite convinced that this wasn't always the case but, now that we
have Facebook, the possible audience is huge.

It seems that within ten minutes of any social event the odds are that you will displayed to thousands of people, many of whom you don't know.

And so people are far more concerned about pictoral quality. When I say 'people' of course I mean the females of our family. All of us males take whatever comes; and as such there are hundreds of photographs of me on the internet either eating food, half way through speaking, looking like I am about to sneeze, half asleep on the sofa, or looking like I have just been dragged through the proverbial hedge in reverse.
This, apparently, is not a problem because the girls always look good. But then that's th benefit of having editorial control.

Modern Dance - Old Fashioned Dad

If you met me you would probably think I was an eighteen stone, ex-rugby playing, northern male. This is of course true but I do have a softer side that has been revealed over time whilst bringing up four beautiful daughters. I occasionally cry at sad films, notice what my wife is wearing, and try to phone my mother once a week.

Anyway this week the man described above was invited to a performance of modern dance by the Leeds based company known as the Phoenix Modern Dance Company.

I agreed to go because a very close family friend is one of their performers.

In a way I was only going to offer support knowing that I have rarely understood or enjoyed dance.

We arrived at the venue and there was a sense of anticipation from the crowd and I felt it easy to get caught up with the general buzz.

The dance started and I have to say that I was immediately captivated by everything that I saw. It was truly amazing. The strength, the agility, the control, the grace, the passion; It was almost too much to believe.

After the first act I compared note with Mrs M and the parents of our star dancer. The female members of the party seemed to get every nuance of the movement and hidden storyline whilst I, and the dancer's father, were slightly bemused.

It wasn't that we didn't appreciate what we saw; it was amazing. It was that the story that our wives described didn't seem obvious to us.

I concluded that modern dance, as with all other art forms, has its own language. If, as I was, you are unaware of its subtleties you will not fully understand what is being communicated.

The second act started and I tried to concentrate a little harder, hoping to catch up with Mrs M and our friend in order to understand the story.

Once again it was quite simply breath taking; it was passionate without being gratuitous. It was energetic without being frantic.

At the end my bride asked for my opinion on the storyline. I figured that the slow bits were trying to express a different narrative that the fast bits but I just couldn't offer a coherent explanation.

The females seemed to just get it without explanation, whilst we males were in awe but none the wiser.

Did I enjoy the evening; one hundred percent. Did I understand what was happening; not at all. Would I go again; in a heartbeat.

It was an incredible experience and I took the time to express my gratitude to all concerned.

It seems that appreciating other people's worlds does not rely upon understanding the local language. It just takes a certain open mindedness and a willingness to turn up.

If this eighteen-stone, ex-rugby player can do it, and then anyone can do it. Well-done Phoenix Dance Company. If only I could dance.

Thouroughly Modern Milieu

Football season is well with us and its effect upon our family life is very evident at the moment. Not because everyone who either lives in our house, or visits occasionally to eat our food or have their laundry done, wants to watch it.

In fact I am the only one who has a passion for the beautiful game, occasionally joined by my two son-in-laws.

I try not to be too obsessive about it but I struggle to keep quite when the girls and Mrs M put on America's Next Top Model whilst the live footie is on the other side.

I tend to sit and look ever so slightly forlorn so that eventually my bride suggest that I go to the pub to watch the match: success.

Last week I returned from one such trip to the hostelry to join in with a discussion between two of my daughters and their mother. Mrs Molineaux's youngest had been in a lecture about the sociology of movies and been set the task of explaining term Post-Modernity.

It turns out that in essence my wife and I have been generally influenced by modernity in that we were brought up with a worldview that we thought was shared by everybody. We watched the same TV programmes as most other people (we only had three channels to choose from) and we would see many of our neighbours on our annual holiday (Prestatyn was like our village but with a beach). In this world there was only one truth and we all shared in it.

Our daughters are all post-modern children and as such they are full of questions and see the world more as a global village. For them the status quo is there to be challenged. There are many truths on offer; take your pick.

In our youth getting a colour telly and an extra channel was mind blowing; for them having seven-hundred channels to choose from is just mundane.

During their deep (very deep) conversation I thought I would add a question that would be of help: 'can any of you explain the offside rule?'

They stared at me for a moment before expressing their lack of reverence for all things football. They are feisty girls, however, and couldn't resist a challenge so it wasn't long before they were trying to offer an explanation.

The ketchup, salt and pepper pots, vinegar bottle, and butter knife were all in position as the girls offered several different versions of the offside rule; non of which were right.

Mrs M stepped up to the table and I was confident that she would provide the answer, because I had spent some considerable time explaining it to her when we were newly married. To my horror she got it wrong and I had to step in to put them all right.

I challenged my bride on why she had forgotten all that I had taught her and she answered with a smile 'football isn't the only sport you know'.

How post-modern is she.

Are new parents the real cause of Global Warming?

A friend at work has just returned after the birth of his first child. He looked a little tired but manged to cover it with a smile that fooled everyone except those who had children of their own.

We knew! To us it was obvious. That slight redness in the eyes. The odd gaze into the distance as he struggled to fully engage with the conversation, and the fact that his once imaculate appearance was now, ever so slightly, crumpled.

Not in any really obvious way you understand: the fact that his shirt was slightly under ironed shouted that his wife was otherwise occupied or, if ironing is one of his chores, he didn't have enough energy left to reach his usual standard.

We all asked him how it was going and then proceeded to nod in an understanding way. Each of us experienced parents then took turns in telling a bit of our story.

That is surely the point of other people having babies: so that we get chance to impart our choice bits of parental wisdom

It was probably all a little too much but we meant well.

Amongst the wisdom available were these pearls, which I offer here in the hope that they will either aid you, should you have young children, or bring back memories if yours have now flown the nest.

1. Each child seems to have it's own preferred rhythm that helps them to sleep. Of you find the right song to play out in your head whilst you rock them it can make all the difference.

2. He more the baby sleeps the more they will sleep. (we needed a little more explanation on this one). Basically it means that you shouldn't try to keep the child awake for long periods with the intention of making them tired thinking that this will make them sleep better at night. It won't work.

3. Most babies seem to like noise more than quiet. New parents think that they need to tip toe around and whisper, but experience shows that a normal amount of noise gives some level of security.

Our new parent joined in at this point with the news that his son stops crying when he runs the cold water tap.

At this point it occured to me that the real cause of global warming was rookie parents trying to keep their kids quiet.

If listen ever so carefully you can hear the sound of running taps, hoovers, washing machines, fans, car engines, and Hi-fi's.

We chuckled as we shared stories of late night drives to nowhere desperately trying to get just the smallest amount of peace.

I tried to convince them that the only reason I developed snoring as a regular practice was in order to offer enough household noise to keep the babies from waking but they threatened to check out my story with Mrs M.

With all this in mind I am thinking of inventing an iron that makes a soothing noise as you use it so that way my colleague can keep his son quiet whilst attempting to keep up his usual well-kept appreance.

Dangerous Compliments

I have long known that going out for an evening is a far easier affair for a man than it is for a woman. For men the process goes; Shirt, Tie, Trousers, Socks, Done.



This usually means that I take my place on the sofa with the remote control and wait for the females to work their way through the variety of tasks that seem to make them happy.



My wife often tries to get me to do various task during this waiting period but I usually manage to get out of such work by claiming that once I am ready I need to make sure that I don’t get too hot. To be fair I could wait until a little later to get ready and fulfil the list. Please don’t tell Mrs M.



The usual routine during this time is that my TV viewing is periodically interrupted by the girls and their mother showing me what they are intending to wear.



I try to appear interested but my energies are usually sapped by the fact that I know their outfits will no doubt changed several times before we leave the house.



I try to resist the temptation to ask why they keep asking for my opinion when it doesn’t seem to make any difference.



I have become increasingly aware that offering compliments can also be a dangerous pastime for a husband who is eager to please.



Last week I had collected my bride from the surgery where she works with the intention of making a flying visit past our home before we head off to some friends for the evening.



After a quick freshen up I said to my wife that she look beautiful and that there was no need to change. To which she replied that she had already done so and that before I decide to comment it might be best if I looked at what she was actually wearing.



She had a point because I hadn’t noticed what she was wearing when I collected her but in my defence she always looks good and I just wanted to affirm that on this occasion.



There have been other times when I have been all too eager to offer a positive comment in order to get Mrs M and her daughters out of the door. I don’t think I am the only male to adopt such tactics.



I tried to offer encouraging words a couple of nights ago as my wife put on her brand new high heel boots to attend a local housewarming party.



They certainly looked good but as my wife often trips up wearing flat shoes I was a little concerned for her safety.



“Are those boots made for walking”? I enquired resisting the urge to sing the famous song.



“They are mainly for standing in” came her reply “but they look good”.



It took us twenty minutes to walk a few hundred yards; She did look great but I thought it best not to say anything!

Full Length Mirror

My wife has just suggested that we visit our youngest daughter again this coming weekend. The reason: apparently she doesn’t have a full-length mirror in her new student accommodation and we need to take her ours.

If we do it will be the seventh time in as many weeks that we have made the trip to York. This, to my mind, seems a little excessive.

It is a little odd to me that such a fuss should be made over a piece of reflective glass but the girls in our family all share a certain attraction to such.

When they were younger I managed to buy a particularly large mirror for our hallway. It was both tall and wide and became something of a peacemaker in a family at war with each other over hairbrushes, clothes, and toys.

Before the acquisition of this new piece of wall furniture we would regularly see our daughters tussling with each other as to who could see their own reflection before they left for a full day at school.

I tended to think that it wouldn’t be quite the same in a house full of lads but other parents have told me that in today’s visual world boys are feeling a similar pressure to conform.

It was different in my day; as a boy I cant ever remember ever carrying a comb with me. Preferring to take my chances with the world looking like I had been dragged through a hedge backwards. A charge my mother would often level at me.

I can’t remember ever trying to climb through a hedge, let alone doing so backwards, but my parents seemed to think it was one of my chosen hobbies.

I was also accused of trying to find all the muddy puddles in the village and rolling in it; granted I did tend to return home from the park in a sorry state.

Perhaps this is why, to this day, I still aim for the large and deep puddles on the road when driving my car. Most men do it. There is something deeply satisfying about driving through water and risking your engine cutting out part way through.

I need to point out that, however tempting it might be, I resist doing so when there is a pedestrian nearby. Honest!

I think that much of our childhood experience is carried into adult life and absorbed as normal behaviour.

I still do not carry a comb with me and see little point in spending ages looking into a mirror before I leave the house.

Mr s M would say that this shows; she often takes an upward glance towards my hairline and holds back a ‘tut’ at how bad my hair looks.

If she feels in a kindly mood she will retrieve her brush from the mysterious compartments of her handbag and tidy me up. Even she is in a rush then she will ask simply ask whether I have ‘looked in the mirror this morning’.

After this weekend it would mean a trip to York to do so.

Competitive Girls

I had the pleasure of being on Radio 4’s Womans Hour last week in order to talk about my favourite complaint; too many women in a house with only one bathroom.



The subject turned towards the competitiveness difference between male and female offspring.



Another guest, who had a house full of boys, told of how they turn even the simplest of tasks into a measure of who is the best.



I can’t say that the Molineaux females have ever been that competitive; preferring to gang together to discuss nails, makeup, clothes, and TV.



There are, however, odd occasions where they are quite happy to move in to fight mode. The one that springs to mind is when we organised family Easter Egg hunts for them when they were children.



As parents we tried to set the rules of the game such that each of the four girls would end up with an equal amount of chocolate.



Our intentions were rarely realised as the girls dashed around the house fighting their way towards their Easter reward.



Our girls are now grown up, with the youngest approaching nineteen, so such events are part of our collective folklore. Last year however we managed to perform a minor miracle and get all the girls, plus husbands, together for the Easter break.



The conversation soon turned to recollections of the fun they had all had during their earlier years, when my Mrs Molineaux’s eldest suggested they organised one now.



What you need to understand is that when she suggested that ‘they’ organised it what she actually meant was that I did it. The collective shout of ‘Daaaaaaaad!’ drew me from the kitchen to hear about their plans.



I dashed to the supermarket to see if there were any Easter eggs left at such short notice and managed to collect together enough items to make it a true competition.



As in earlier years the family were sent out for thirty minutes so that I could run around the house like a mad man with handfuls of melting chocolate.



When they returned I explained the rules not least so that our new son-in-laws could join in too. They looked slightly bemused and for a moment I worried about their safety but I figured they were old enough to deal with what ever trauma might come their way through this new experience.



I signalled the start of the race and too our amazement, and parental delight, the girls reverted to young children again and assumed their earlier roles. Daughter number one screamed her way from room to room. Daughter number two failed to see even the most obvious of hidden treasure. Offspring number three quietly collected a hoard of quality chocolate, and Mrs Molineaux’s youngest happily took chocolate from her sister’s collections.



It was like going back in time except that is for the presence of two rather bemused lads who didn’t quite know what had hit them.



Are males more competitive than females; probably yes but not when it comes to Easter egg hunts.

Empty House

Sunday was a very strange day; it was almost as if time stood still. I am not referring here to the end of the Manchester derby where the ref seemed to be set on confirming that time is indeed relative. Seeing that my allegiances are of a red hue I was more than happy with the result.

The slowing of time that I refer to was when we dropped our youngest daughter off at her new student home in York.

She is technically an adult so one might wonder what the fuss is all about but there we were with all the other worried looking parents, letting our offspring fly.

Time stood still as we watched and waited for the right time to leave and return home.

It was obvious that all but a few of the new university students were more than keen for their parents to depart; I believe the announcement that there was live music and cheap alcohol available in the student bar drove this wish to be left alone.

My wife did what mums do and fussed her way around our daughter’s new room. I did what dads do and made sure her TV was tuned in correctly.

It was clear, however, that we could stall no longer; we were no longer required and so Mrs M stopped fluffing the pillows and I put the remote control down and we prepared to head back to our quiet and daughter free home.

I had made the ultimate sacrifice of missing the football in order to deliver our precious package to York and so on the way home I was quick to switch the radio. I managed to catch the last and controversial five minutes and twenty-seven seconds of the match.

Judging by the tone of several text messages my many Man City supporting g friends did not share my delight in the result.

Still celebrating this Mrs M and I began to reminisce on our twenty-five years of having children in our home.

It was at this point that time started to speed up as we asked the question that all parents of a certain age ask at times like this; ‘where has all the time gone?’

The paradox of time is that in the same moment of reflection the birth of our youngest daughter seemed like only yesterday and many years ago all mixed together.

We arrived home to a house that still had all the signs of having had a teenager manically filling suitcases with essential items of clothes.

We enjoyed having the freedom of being able to choose any programme on the TV and waiting for a text message from daughter number four assuring us that all was ok.

When the message finally arrived we eagerly looked to see how our precious girl was coping without us.

It read: going 2 club, can U bring my coat phone charger and extra money on Tuesday night.

We should have been annoyed at having to make the trip to York again but felt comforted that we were still needed.

When lol means laugh out loud

Some friends were rather pleased to receive a hand written letter this week; yes, a hand written letter!

They were both amazed and excited, and I have to say I understand their feelings. I cannot remember the last time I had the fun of trying to decipher the scrawl of another human being.

Most communications these days are either computer generated being sent by email or text. The language and writing style in these new forms of dialogue are often completely different than the more traditional style.

Mrs Molineaux’s youngest, who is fully versed in this new condensed messaging system, got me thinking the other day. She was sending a message via her mobile phone and asked ‘How do you spell………?’

Herein lies the problem; she wanted to know how to express the noise you make when you are offering sympathy or emotional agreement. The sound that phonetically sounds like the word ‘or’ but with more of an ‘a’ sound in it.

She tried Ah but that can sound like an expression of surprise. Her sisters joined the conversation and offered Argh then realised that it sounded like what you would shout if you had trapped your finger in a draw. Apparently the inclusion of the letter ‘g’ makes it a harder sound.

The eventually settle on Aaaaaaah which, to my mind, still has the potential to lead to confusion.

Such is the world of the mobile phone conversation. Even though they have the facility for what is known as predictive text (it guesses the word you want as you start to enter the first few letters), we still feel the need to shorten words and phrases.

Using the number 4 instead of taking hours typing the three letters FOR is a favourite. Time is of the essence it seems because it is not unusual to receive a message containing ‘NE’ as a replacement for ‘ANY’. It hardly seems worth the effort. Daughter number three answered one of my messages with a simple Gr8 to let me know that my suggestion was, in fact, GREAT. Marvellous!

Some of this is a generational thing and I can see a difference in the way I type these quick messages compared with my daughters. This said, my mother, who is in her seventies types text messages in a different way than my generation. She still insists on including correct punctuation; something that must take her a long time to do.

The whole thing is set to cause generational confusion I am sure. A male colleague recently sent me a joke via my mobile phone and ended the text with ‘lol’.

I was surprised if not a little scared because had always understood this to mean lots of love. I mean, I appreciated his friendship but I wasn’t ready for such shows of emotion.

When I asked him about his greeting he informed me that the youth of today have now redesignated lol to mean Laugh Out Loud.

Argh!

Robin Hood Stateside

We have just been invited to visit America by some friends. Naturally we are thrilled at the possibility and it has produced a flourish of internet activity by my wife and I looking for info on holidaying in Florida.

Mrs M started her search by looking for clothing recommendations for sub-tropical climes and then planning shopping expeditions to prepare for the adventure.

I, on the other hand, wanted to ensure that I was ahead of the game when it comes to all things guitar related; this is after all the home of the Gibson Les Paul and the Fender Strat.

Visiting a new place has all the potential for both adventure and culture shock so we are right to prepare.

Some years ago we became friends with an American couple living in the UK. They were stationed here by the USA air force and were determined to make the most of their time here in Blighty.

As part of their induction they were given instruction on how to understand British culture. Needless to say the details were wildly general and over stated.

One of the main areas of confusion was related to the amount of space we live in; or lack of it. Whereas stateside they have the luxury of almost 10 million square kilometres on which to house their 300 million inhabitants, we have only a quarter of a million km for our 60 million residents; hence their conception that we are a densely populated isle with very little room to move.

There are times, when stuck in traffic at the Saltaire round-a-bout, that I feel there assessment may be correct.

Still we are heading across the pond to see the land of the free; I wonder what mistaken views we might have built up over the years.

I tend to think of long dusty roads and small one-street towns, but then I grew up watching old western movies. I know too that there are skyscrapers and yellow taxis, as well as large canyons and giant redwood trees.

Of course we get most of our views from the movies and the TV so it is hardly surprising that we believe certain inaccuracies. Hollywood, and perhaps Elstree too, have a lot to answer for here.

Some years ago Kevin Costner treated us to his Nottinghamshire/Californian accent whilst playing Robin Hood in a major motion picture.

Other than the stars verbal mismatch the film holds tight to historical accuracy by showing Costner and Morgan Freeman returning to England via the White Cliffs of Dover then, after walking along Hadrian’s Wall, arriving at Sherwood Forest; the only way to travel through this land I think.

I hope our journey to Florida doesn’t take equally preposterous diversions. In order to fit in I might practice my east coast accent (Florida not Norfolk). Well it can’t be any worse than Robin Hood sounding like a prairie cattle rancher.

Whichever way we travel I must try to avoid the Saltaire round-a-bout.

Credit Crunch

In these days of our credit being crunched we all have to make little sacrifices. I for example am committed to making sure that we consume all of the food in the house before we shop for more.



When I announced my plan to the female members of the family it was treated with a high degree of derision.



I don’t know what they are complaining about we did this every year when we went camping; its amazing how breakfast cereal can bulk out a curry on the last night of a holiday.



I searched through the kitchen and found several tins that seemed to have been in the cupboard for years; mackerel fillets, pears, luncheon meat, sweet corn, and kidney beans. I can’t remember the last time I bought sweet corn and yet there always seems to be a tin in the cupboard.



I have to admit that I couldn’t find a suitable recipe to include them all so we had an omelette made with the eggs that were seconds from their sell by date.



For dessert I offered them crushed ginger snap biscuits heated with butter, topped with ice cream and toffee sauce, which everyone agreed, proved a great success.



During my search I discovered a new taste sensation that the rest of the family were quick to turn their noses up at. It was a combination of two of my favourite tastes that, coincidently, the rest of the family cannot abide.



Liquorice pieces dipped in Marmite.



I accept that some of you will be immediately disgusted by such a thought. But there will be some, just a few, who will find the whole idea intriguing and will be rushing to the kitchen to test it out.



My wife, ever the wit, patted me on my extra sized tummy and questioned whether it was pregnancy cravings.



I have a friend who has admitted to also being conscious of the need to make savings in their weekly grocery bill. He has, however, upset his wife in the process.



Being a keen fisherman he knows the intricacies of finding the best bate for successful angling. He slipped up by admitting that although he has made the sacrifice of buying the cheapest sweet corn for the family cupboard he has continued to buy the premium brand for his favourite hobby.



It seems that saving money is important but we all need the opportunity of making a luxury decision now and again. In light of this I suggested that each family member had the chance to nominate a couple things that would not be sacrificed as part of our economy drive.



The list included such minor luxuries as coffee and breakfast cereal but there were a few items that the female members of clan Molineaux were agreed on: Tomato Sauce, Shampoo, and Tea bags.



As for me; I was happy to concede that although most value options were worth trying I was adamant that neither Marmite nor liquorice would be sacrificed. I have my standards!

A Spot of Sun

What do we British do when we wake up to the sun shining on a Sunday morning in late winter? Well mostly we get on with the usual things because we can’t quite believe it is happening.

My memory might be playing tricks on me but all I can recall from youth is weekends of ‘rain stops play’ followed by Wednesday afternoons of occasional sunshine. If the sun did try to peek through the clouds my mother would insist on making me wear a hat so that I didn’t get sunstroke; I ask you sunstroke on the edge of the Pennines.

So this Sunday we were all surprised to see that we were presented with a pleasant day. We went for a walk in order not to miss the moment and enjoyed the experience of passing weather related comments with neighbours and strangers alike.

“What a lovely day!” we would exclaim as if taking some credit for the arrival of the sun.

We used this phrase millions of times during our stroll towards fellow strollers making the most of the early spring like day and when I say millions I mean several.

Without exception the response was the same from other happy Yorkshire dwellers; ‘Yes! But is due to get worse tomorrow!’

It was amazing, we get one pleasant day in the midst of the grey and we can/t allow ourselves to enjoy it for the thought that the next day might be a more gloomy picture.

My wife, who has just been to see a film called ‘Confessions of a shopaholic’, took this temperature rise as an excuse to look at her wardrobe and make plans for buying apparel suitable for warmer climes.

In a few weeks time we will be off to the USA to visit friends and she has already exclaimed several times that she doesn’t possess any Florida type clothing. I asked for explanation of what might count as suitable for such holiday-wear but none was forthcoming, except for the usual “I’ll know it when I see it”.

In her search to travel abroad correctly equipped, Mrs M is hampered by our general lack of belief in hot weather. And so it is that, at the same time as looking for vacation garments, she is planning to include in our suitcases items that will keep us warm if the temperature should drop.

Think about it for a moment; we are travelling to an area noted for its sunshine and this English couple are planning for the possibility of a cold snap.

I wonder if when we get there we will feel the need to comment on the weather with the Americans that we meet. One thing is for sure they are highly unlikely to reply with comments about the conditions getting worse. But just in case we are not going without some handy thermals, after all you never know!

Plastic Bag Crimes

I am not sure what is happening but shopping has become a lot harder. Up until recently a quick trip to the local supermarket was just that; ‘quick’. Now, however, I am faced with a question at the end of the process that has put my head into a spin. ‘Do you want a carrier bag” says the till operator.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am not trying to be sarcastic but what on earth do they think I am going to take my goods home in. I could possibly fit the toothpaste and paracetamol into my jeans pocket but I am not sure I have room for the two bottles of cola, six pork chops, and large bag of spuds.

Before I could even answer this question I was faced with another receptacle centred choice: ‘Would you like a bag for life?’ I was asked as if this were a perfectly normal part of the retail experience.

‘Well actually, I just want it long enough to get me home’ I stuttered wondering what other odd questions might be coming my way.

Apparently this is now the way of things in the world of supermarket shopping with all the major retailers eager to be seen as green when it comes to the public’s consumption of plastic bags.

Where as once upon a time the whole till area was covered in strewn plastic carriers we are now being encouraged to buy some higher quality ones before being reluctantly offer the wafer thin variety that are booby trapped to split just before you reach the boot of your car.

It seems that non-biodegradable plastic is today’s shopping equivalent of the lead in our petrol from a decade ago.

The bag for life schemes are aimed at getting lazy shoppers like me to bring our own carriers to the store so that we don’t continue to fill the world with plastic. Apparently if all the bags used by shoppers in one year were laid end to end they would still rip when you tried to carry two bottles of coke in them.

At first the rebel in me balked at the idea of being forced to think about whether I wanted a bag or not; usually because I am far too eager to end the whole shopping experience. The policy seems to be working because now I am starting to think for myself about my responsibility to the world around me. The fact that the supermarkets make you feel like a minor war criminal if you dare to turn up without the required carting equipment probably helps in this regard.

It started off as ‘Do you want a carrier bag?’ and then moved to ‘Do you want a bag for life?’

Soon, in true Oliver Twist meets Mr Bumble style, it will be ‘You want what!......A Plastic Bag!’



I suppose it is all part of life in the modern world where we are collectively influenced to live responsibly in all that we do. Apparently if I use too many plastic bags it has a direct effect upon the progress of global warming; so that explains why my two weeks holiday was so full of rain!



I went in a store recently that gave me the choice of a ten pence bag or a cardboard box at the end of the till. Ten Pence! That is a quarter of a chocolate bar. If I buy enough for the whole of my shopping I could end up spending a full pound with nothing but a clean environment to show for it.



All went well at first as I loaded my purchases into the box that was once used to transport detergent. Then, as I tried to retrieve my pound coin from the shopping trolley the bottom of the box gave way and all good spilt on to the floor.



At that moment I remember thinking that two shilling for a carrier bag didn’t seem that bad after all. Saving the planet is such hard work!

Two Printers

My dream of a paperless office has almost completely disappeared after we acquired two printers for our spare bed room. This room is multifunctional in that it houses the bed settee so that we can welcome guests, the collection of books that my wife and I have threatened to read should we get a moment, and our home office equipment.



I didn’t set out to have two printers; the first of our collection failed to disperse ink on the A4 paper and had to be sent away for repair. Not unreasonably I considered life without creating my own documents to be hardly worth living so I bought another to see me through the waiting period.



The original being satisfactorily repaired we now own two. It seems to me that this might not be a bad situation for a house full of daughters.



My wife and I are constantly refereeing arguments about the use of ‘the’ hairbrush. The fact that we have only one is a complete amazement to me as I have bought many over the years thinking I was bringing peace to the Molineaux household.



The use of computer associated equipment has also been a source of conflict over the years therefore perhaps the ownership of two printers will prove effective in sister to sister relations.



I am concerned, however, that my collection of duplicates is growing. A few months ago I bought a laminator to assist in adding protection to all those important documents that we produce on our two printers; things like….. well it doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that they are important.



This purchase was made a few weeks before we moved house so I didn’t get round to opening the box never mind using the equipment. Much to my daughters amusement my father-in-law insists on calling it a marinator,



A couple of weeks after our flit I decided that I needed to cover an A4 sheet in plastic so I went on a hunt for the required item. It was not to be found and I spent several moments mourning its loss.



Even though my need for its services was crucial to the running of the household it was not until several weeks later that I bought a replacement for our lost equipment.



Needless to say I found the lost laminator the very next day and now we have two!



I wonder whether this duplication will also stave off arguments between the siblings. They can now print and laminate in tandem.



I just now need to buy another hairbrush.

Say it with Sayings

In a recent quiz we were challenged to think of twenty well known proverbs; fine you might think! If we weren’t under the pressure of having to come up with them to save our team’s honour against other collections of humanity it would be fine. As it was we were struggling big time.

We could come up with three straight away and then all went blank. I don’t want to blame age as a the main cause of our unfruitfulness but it does seem to be a recurring theme these days as we rush our way towards fifty not out. The memory loss is one thing but the propensity to be easily distracted is another.

Our first two proverbs caused me the most problem in this respect. ‘Two many cooks spoil the broth’ and ‘Many hands make light work’. I couldn’t help pondering how such seemingly simplistic proverbs could be so diametrically opposed. With these two sayings we are faced with a serious problem when it comes to soup making; either we suffer the consequence of having too much staff in the kitchen and consume sub-standard minestrone, or we find it to be such hard work due to lack of help that we become too exhausted to eat it.

When we finally got going with our quiz answers we were faced with other contradictory problems. How am I supposed to believe that I am ‘never to old to learn’ if at the same time it is impossible to ‘teach an old dog new tricks’. This never seemed to be problem when I was younger but now it has a certain poignancy.

When I was in my twenties I was happy to try new things living by the spirit of the youthful saying ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’. Now, however, it appears that the power of this saying has been reduced by the fact that is ‘better to be safe than sorry’.

I turned to my team mates and asked them if they felt a similar amount of confusion at this point; after all we were joined together because we had much in common, as if confirming the truism ‘birds of a feather flock together’. Nobody else shared my concern leaving me to feel slightly excluded until one of our group pointed out that ‘opposites attract’; thus proving my point. I think perhaps I am at the age where I should make up my own proverbs that fit with my midlife status. Try these:

‘Whatever hair you lose on you head grows in your ears and nose’

‘If it is not on the shopping list it doesn’t get bought’

‘Pastry can only be eaten once a week’

‘If you wear that style of clothes long enough it will eventually come back in fashion’

This one is important because after all ‘clothes maketh the man’ although, come to think of it you shouldn’t ‘judge a book by its cover’ so it doesn’t matter after all. Confused! I think we should let sleeping dogs lie.

When your children learn to drive

It was like a scene from a world war two movie as I stood like a nervous RAF commander waiting for the planes to return from their latest sortie.
As daughter number three turned the corner in her blue Citroen emblazoned with L-plates there was no sign of damaged just the usual look of fear on the examiners face.
I hovered near the entrance of the test centre hoping to pick up signs of whether her mission was successful. With a punch in the air and a quick smile in my direction the newly crowned fluffy dice owner declared her victory.
We celebrated by having the music on load on the way home and the ceremonial removing of the extra rear view mirror. Then, as if I hadn't already suffered enough over the past four months of dad and daughter lessons, she unleashed the full terror of this new found freedom on me. "I want to travel down to see my friends in Norfolk the day after tomorrow", she offered as if a 143-mile road trip was just round the corner.
I resorted to the best answer a dad can use in situations like these; "you had better talk to your mother". It didn't stop her enthusiasm. With a cold, menacing stare at the road ahead she asked, "Is it easy to drive in France?"
Norfolk! France! Give me chance to get used the idea of you driving to the town centre first. I knew such things would happen but I need time to get accustomed to such changes. I tried to stem the tide of youthful automotive ideas by hinting at the need for another couple of lessons to cover motorway driving and multi-storey car parks but it was too late. My little girl was ready to fly...or drive as the case may be.
The pain was slightly eased by her offer to collect youngest daughter from various weekly clubs and occasionally put petrol in the now over used car, although in truth I know that such enthusiasm will be short lived.
It has occurred to me that in my eagerness to prepare her for the practical test I had forgotten to tell her about some very important driving rules:

1) Never have an amusing car sticker because they generally don't work.
Except for one that I saw on an old guy's car, it read 'My other hat's a balaclaver'.
2) Always turn the embarrassing music down when you stop at traffic lights. You never know who is watching.
3) Never forgive anyone who continually drives in the middle lane of a near empty motorway.
4) Expect signs for 'Town Centre Parking' to mysteriously disappear just
after they have lead you into a bus lane
5) Know that 'All other routes' means all other routes EXCEPT the one that you need.
I am pleased to report that, in the two weeks since L's were turned into
P's, fluffy dice owner has successfully travelled to Norfolk and back. I am proud of her although I still stand at the kitchen window waiting for her spitfire to return.

Open Top Cars

They say that midlife brings a certain crisis to men leaving them with a need to complete an unfulfilled goal. For some this involves the purchase of a motorbike with more chrome than is good for you. For others a clothing makeover is undertaken aimed at somehow recapturing their youth.



I have noticed a rather surprising trend in this respect in the number of middle aged men driving open top cars; especially when you consider the weather in these parts.



How often do you see men in their late forties or early fifties driving convertibles with the top still up because the water content in the atmosphere could ruin their luxury leather upholstery.



When a sunny day does arrive it is seized upon as a perfect way of justifying their decision to buy a roofless motor. Of course these occasions normally occur on Wednesday afternoons when most people are at work.



Then, every Silsden flood or so, a week of rain is followed by a Sunday of kinder conditions when our middle-aged heroes come into their own (or should that be go out on their own).



The hills and dales are filled with two-seater convertibles as couples pretend to be enjoying the wind destroying their neatly coiffured hair. You can’t imagine they could have a good conversation without having to shout at each other above the noise of the other traffic; give me air-conditioning any day.



A few weeks ago we went for drive in our car with a roof in the general direction of Ilkley deciding to stop off a pub on the tops for a bite to eat. We sat for a while after our meal and stared lazily at the incredible view before us, occasionally glancing at the cars arriving to find room at the inn.



It wasn’t long before several convertibles arrived seemingly in convoy; it looked like a mid-life crisis day out. I have to admit they looked quite good in their vehicles as the sun dared to peak from behind its usual grey blanket to smile on them; I almost felt a tinge of envy (I said almost); they were having their one day in the sun so you had to allow them a bit of showing off.



Within a few minutes, however, we were distracted by a loud noise above us as a helicopter circled, and then landed in the field adjacent to the beer garden. The pilot circled a few times which I presume was an important part of his approach to landing although it seemed like he was just enjoying the sight of us all holding on to garden umbrellas.



Once he ‘parked’ his chopper we joined the rest of the pub clientele, leaving our drinks to stand and watch this incredible sight; probably hoping to see a celebrity or two emerge.



Once the blades had stopped their whirring a fairly ordinary looking family appeared from the gleaming copter and joined the other revellers in their search for good ale and food. We all returned to our seats and our conversations slightly disappointed not to be in the presence of someone famous.



I had to feel slightly sad for the open top car drivers as they were severely beaten in the ‘looking cool’ stakes. They all looked a bit saddened by the appearance of the helicopter family and it wasn’t long before they climbed in to their vehicles to find a pub that didn’t welcome pilots.



We didn’t wait to watch the flying family take off again because we had plans to look around quaint shops in Ilkley and Skipton. I took one last look at the monster of a machine in the field not far from where I had parked my car and was comforted that the helicopter same colour as my Passat; at least we had that in common.

Day Off

I took a day off work last week in order to get a few jobs done that had been building up for some time. You know! Those jobs that you convince yourself you will do on a Saturday morning but find that weekends are eaten up with other more important things, like watching cookery programmes on TV or trying to finish off that killer suduko that has been plaguing you for days.



I planned my day off to include a short, but well deserved, lie in and a breakfast that included bacon; chewing rabbit food every morning is more a chore than a pleasure. And, to ensure that I didn’t fritter away my time, I had written a list of important jobs.



When I woke on the morning of my much anticipated free day I noticed that some additions had been made to my agenda, in my wife’s hand writing I might add.



Apparently she felt that it would be a good use of my time to tidy up the wire drawer. I am not sure if every home has one but in our house we have a space specifically reserved for all the chargers, computer connectors, camera leads and other electrical odds and ends.



The development of this draw, like most home ideas, started off with good intentions; we were constantly being asked by the girls if we had seen the fire wire for the video camera or similar (as if we even knew what a fire wire was). We were so frustrated by the sight of daughters dashing around at the last minute trying to find a connector in order charge a phone that my wife suggested we choose one place that would become a safe haven for wires.



Now, after only a short while since the drawer was commissioned for its new purpose, it has started to develop a life of its own. Resembling a scene from an episode of Star Trek where an explosion has caused a panel to fall off the wall of the bridge, our drawer spews forth wires from every corner. It has also developed the ability to knot all the cables together during the night so that when you come to retrieve your much needed adapter you spend hours trying to untangle the spaghetti. This newly formed eco-system has grown so much that it is virtually impossible to now close the drawer.



It took me the best part of the morning, broken only by the delicious consumption of pig meat, to make any sense of the entanglement. I laid all the wires out on the floor in long straight lines and tried to work out what they were for.



I felt slightly annoyed that although we only have four mobile phones in the house we had seven different chargers. As well as the question about the Molineaux family’s inability to throw things away this raises another issue.



Why don’t all mobile phones manufacturers use the same type of charger?



Perhaps there are technical reasons that are beyond my limited subject knowledge but surely if you are cleaver enough to design a device that can not only allow you to talk to other people but can let you surf the internet, play music, and take digital photographs, why can’t you design a wire to fit all types of phones?



The world is full of such duplications; whether it is starter motors for your car or tv remote controls every new thing you buy will require a new version of a very basic component.



I suppose it is due to companies competing for market share with their latest inventions that leads this. In the days of the VHS/Betamax battle for home video players it was the same; pieces of equipment that were designed to do the same job yet not compatible with each other. Before that it was the compact cassette verses the cartridge and I am sure there have been many examples since.



I wonder if any one is still using a Betamax machine to record the telly; if so I think I have cable for it in my wire drawer.

My Daughter is 18

Our youngest daughter is about to turn eighteen and I am feeling decidedly old. The problem is not directly related to her age as much as to how I will now have to answer the question ‘Do you have any children?’



It forms one of the many introductory questions that we Brits ask when meeting new people. Others include ‘Do you live locally?’, ‘Where do you work?’, and ‘Are you married?’ What an interesting bunch we are.



They are only beaten by the age old favourite for this island race of ‘What do you think of this weather we are having?’



There was a time when I used to simply answer the ‘Do you have any children?’ question with ‘Yes I have four daughters’ and then continue into details of the fact that there is two years apart between each of them as if this showed some sense of planning on the part of myself and my wife.



Now, however, I have to face up to answering it by replying with ‘I have four grown up daughters’. Grown up daughters! It makes such a statement about ones age.



It is interesting to me how we allow such things to define us.



When we announced to the world about the birth of our first daughter we were both only twenty-four and it marked an important moment in our journey into adulthood. Looking back I know that we were not prepared for all that parenthood was to bring.



All that I can say is that each new stage hopefully brings the necessary skills required to deal with the responsibility of bringing up a whole other person.



There seems to be four distinct phases in the process that should be considered by any prospective, or current, parent.



Firstly, you are faced with the ‘Bundle of Joy’, a misnomer if ever I had heard one. Of course they represent joy for the wider family and, in the initial stages, for the new parents too. They also signal nights of nappies, vomit, sleep deprivation, and marital arguments; Joy is not the word most new parents would ascribe to this experience.



Added to this is the fact that it is pretty much all one way traffic in the relationship stakes with very young babies; you might convince yourself that they have just smiled at you but everyone else knows it was just the result of wind.



The next stage is slightly more interesting when they reach ‘Little Person’ status. Here they engage with the world in an energetic, if not sometimes, slightly annoying way. It is the days of the ‘Why?’ question being asked at the end of every conversation and where parents break there own commitment not to follow the own mum and dad in saying ‘Because I said so’.



Still it remains fun because you get to see the child develop a personality and see the real them.



A short time later they hit the ‘Teen Terror’ stage and your child disappears from view to be replaced by a lodger dropping into the family communal areas to eat, complain, ask for money, arrange lifts, argue loudly, and then disappear to the underworld of their bedroom; it is like a youth version of ‘Eats, Shouts, and Leaves’.



Fortunately for all concerned there comes another stage that draws all the others together, the ‘just about an adult stage’. This is where it starts to dawn on them that, despite all of their previous objections, parents do actually know something.



It is as if your kids have been away on a journey of self discovery and have now returned to listen and share.



So when your kids are ‘Bundles of Joy’ don’t expect much conversation (from children or your partner. When they are ‘Little Persons’ try to keep smiling whilst they ask ‘Why?’, this too will pass. When they become ‘Teen Terrors’ hope and, if it is your way, pray that all the good stuff that you taught them will hold fast.



And when they finally get to be ‘just about adults’ enjoy it because more than likely you will be just about to hit the ‘I am a grandparent’ stage.

Change

I have reached the age when I have the need to utter phrases like ‘Is it Friday again, the weeks come around so quickly!’


This feeling is only beaten by the speed at which Mondays arrive signalling the end of the weekend and the return to work.


It seems that the progression of the years brings about an increase in routine fuelled by a distinct aversion to change.


We have friends who, noticing this development in their own lives, decided to do something about it. They had read a book advising them to add some variety to their lives by changing one thing that they did as part of their normal lives.


So, with full commitment to the cause, they shopped at a different supermarket for their weekly produce. Not exactly cutting edge thinking Anne and John (you know who you are!).


Having been in the new store only a few minutes they undid their new found appreciation of change and decided to go back to their usual retailer the following week. It seems that not all supermarkets fill their shelves in the same order and this can cause a serious amount of inconvenience to the previously happy shopper. How inconvenient that different things should be………different!


I understand their feelings towards change; it seems that it is easy to find comfort in the familiar. Occasionally I vary my route to work but it is normally due to traffic congestion rather than the search for variety.


When I was younger change seemed to be a welcome friend but now it breaks in to my normality as if to steal some of my comfort.


All this resistance seems at odds with the involuntary change that is happening to us all of the time. I would love to be able to slow down the increase in my waistline or the development of lines around my eyes but, this form of change happens without invitation.


I wonder whether the growing suspicion of all things that alter is a direct result of the feeling that we cannot slow down the aging process no matter how much we moisturise, exfoliate, or tone (probably in the wrong order but you get my point).


Perhaps the advice to bring some variety to our usual routine is useful in helping us to feel like we still have some control over our ever evolving lives.


So this week why not buy your fruit and veg from a different store, travel an alternative way to work, eat a new type of cereal for breakfast, or tune your car radio to another station.


As long as you can still get your cherry tomatoes, arrive at work on time, stave of the 11 o-clock hunger pangs, and put up with Radio One all will be fine.


On second thoughts I think I will keep things the same and listen to a Radio Station that plays music. Change is so overrated!

Digital Camera

I gave my wife a digital camera for her birthday just a few weeks ago and it has disrupted our usually precise routine.



She seems determined to record our every waking moment and so now all of our tasks take twice as long. I am not sure whether this new obsession is an age related thing because, as I feel the need to point out, I am three weeks younger than Mrs M.



It is not just the taking of pictures that has added years to every minute but the additional process now required to make use of the images.



There was a time when a 24 frame film was consumed out of a sense of duty, full in the knowledge of the fact that at least 20 shots would be discarded as virtually useless. Only after the full roll has sat on your shelf for several months will you get around to dropping it in for developing.



Now, with the advancement of digital photography, we are faced with the frightening prospect of every shot being placed on view electronically. Needless to say I am somewhat concerned; I don't have the physiology to allow for too many pictures to be taken with any confidence.



In the days of film there was the natural censorship of the cost of developing at the back of your mind. The picture taker would have had the good grace to at least wait for you to smile and breath-in before pressing the button. Now they just take shot after shot without any care, safe in the knowledge that they can, in theory, erase them later.



Once my bride has filled up a storage disk with pics she is ready to download them onto the computer. I say she is ready when what I actually mean is she is waiting to be shown how to do it for the umpteenth time.



Invariable we cannot remember where we have put the connecting wire even though we have a special drawer for such things. Several minutes and many arguments later we sit down to press all the correct buttons in the right order so that our memories can be stored.



Once this part of the process is complete my wife then wishes to 'Facebook' them (she cares nothing about turning nouns into verbs) and so the logging on to the internet and uploading fun begins.



This is probably the area of digital photography that causes me both the most pleasure and the most pain. There are pictures of me on the world wide web in poses that should not be seen: part way through eating a pie on a day out, half asleep on a deck chair, looking petrified on the Manchester Eye, and spilling decent red wine down my shirt on a night out in Saltaire. Added to these are the numerous shots of me mouthing the words 'Don't take another picture!' I am usually caught mid way through the 'O' of another and looking like a slightly disappointed baboon.

The delight comes in laughing at my many friends who have been caught in similar positions by their partners.



At least my wife can take a decently framed photo. I, on the other hand, produce snaps with the edge of my finger appearing like a shadow in the top left hand corner; I like to make my mark.



So digital photography has removed from our language words and phrases like negative, developing, over exposed, and photograph album. And replaced them with ‘where did you put the wire?’, ‘You should have cleared your old pics off the disc by now’, ‘Could no-one be bothered to charge the battery up’ and ‘why did you put that one on Facebook’.



My wife asked me what I wanted for my birthday when I reach the same age in three weeks time and I am pretty sure that I don’t want a digital camera; one pictorial historian in the family is enough I think.



Mrs M doesn’t seem phased that I have named her such, she just points out that if history is written by the victors then all the power lies with those who own a digital camera.

Sayings

In a recent quiz we were challenged to think of twenty well known proverbs; fine you might think! If we weren’t under the pressure of having to come up with them to save our team’s honour against other collections of humanity it would be fine. As it was we were struggling big time.



We could come up with three straight away and then all went blank. I don’t want to blame age as a the main cause of our unfruitfulness but it does seem to be a recurring theme these days as we rush our way towards fifty not out. The memory loss is one thing but the propensity to be easily distracted is another.



Our first two proverbs caused me the most problem in this respect. ‘Two many cooks spoil the broth’ and ‘Many hands make light work’. I couldn’t help pondering how such seemingly simplistic proverbs could be so diametrically opposed. With these two sayings we are faced with a serious problem when it comes to soup making; either we suffer the consequence of having too much staff in the kitchen and consume sub-standard minestrone, or we find it to be such hard work due to lack of help that we become too exhausted to eat it.



When we finally got going with our quiz answers we were faced with other contradictory problems. How am I supposed to believe that I am ‘never to old to learn’ if at the same time it is impossible to ‘teach an old dog new tricks’. This never seemed to be problem when I was younger but now it has a certain poignancy.



When I was in my twenties I was happy to try new things living by the spirit of the youthful saying ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’. Now, however, it appears that the power of this saying has been reduced by the fact that is ‘better to be safe than sorry’.



I turned to my team mates and asked them if they felt a similar amount of confusion at this point; after all we were joined together because we had much in common, as if confirming the truism ‘birds of a feather flock together’. Nobody else shared my concern leaving me to feel slightly excluded until one of our group pointed out that ‘opposites attract’; thus proving my point. I think perhaps I am at the age where I should make up my own proverbs that fit with my midlife status. Try these:



‘Whatever hair you lose on you head grows in your ears and nose’



‘If it is not on the shopping list it doesn’t get bought’



‘Pastry can only be eaten once a week’



‘If you wear that style of clothes long enough it will eventually come back in fashion’



This one is important because after all ‘clothes maketh the man’ although, come to think of it you shouldn’t ‘judge a book by its cover’ so it doesn’t matter after all. Confused! I think we should let sleeping dogs lie.

Weather

Its all been a bit gloomy on the news over recent weeks and it is quite tempting to stop watching so that you are not faced with depressing pictures. I am, rather unwisely, partial to a spot of burying my head in the sand.


The problem with this approach is that you can easily miss things that you might want to see. I have developed a cunning method for deciding whether to hit the off button during the bulletin. It involves listening to the news readers tone as they introduce the piece. If they start in a bright ‘it feels like a Friday afternoon’ voice then you know that they will be talking about fluffy subjects like abseiling vicars and celebrities doing charity work.


If, however, they begin to talk in sombre tones it is sure sign that trouble is brewing.


It is the same principle as being able to guess the score of the football match as the reporter reads the results on a Saturday afternoon.


I had hoped that I might be able to transfer this new found skill to watching the weather report but the presenters are not as helpful in this respect.


They must be trained to speak in an ‘I have the best job in the world’ kind of voice no matter what the weather conditions. Smiling, almost smugly, they announce that storms will be covering the country.


I don’t mind them being happy when it is going to be sunny but do they have to enjoy telling us to expect grey skies and showers.


Thinking about the summer we have just missed out on perhaps they have had to try and over compensate in order to keep us watching.


Some years ago when Michael Fish brought us news of the climate he would do so in a fully professional way only offering us an occasional smile or chuckle when asked if a hurricane was about to hit our shores. He was more understated, of course, when he came on our screens to apologise later that same week.


You have to feel slightly sorry for weather men and women when it comes to presenting the forecast especially when you consider the last few months.


My father-in-law, with his eighty-eight years of experience refuses to trust them because for years he compared the picture on the screen with the summer view he experienced on his holidays.


Every year he would ring up from a caravan site in Cornwall to tell us that ‘it is glorious sunshine’ and for us not to believe the big black cloud depicted on the map just after the news that evening.


‘They just read it off a piece of paper’ he would say in his broad northern accent as if to imply that they knew nothing and were being fed lines.

I can always tell what he is going to say as soon as I answer the phone and here his very positive voice declaring ‘its sun shining here!’


I wonder if they need any eighty-eight year old weather forecasters.

Pottering

After spending what seems like weeks moving house we finally have a free weekend; well in theory at least.


I had approached this minor miracle in our social life with a certain amount of anticipation until my wife uttered the “P” word in reference to it.


I am not sure if this happens in other households but in mine it seems an all too frequent occurrence and so I have come to dislike the word “pottering”.


I dared to ask my wife for a definition so that I could attempt to gain back some control of my promised free weekend.


Apparently, by the list she reeled off, it consists of doing the things around the house that have built up over time.


Correct me if I am wrong but that just sounds like work and it seems to be at odds with the very notion of having a relaxing weekend.


I mean, anything that has the potential to produce a list or require the use of a screwdriver must be categorised as graft in my book.


My wife, however, approaches this possibility with an undue amount of glee; it seems that she relishes the opportunity of pottering.


I tried to tie her down to a time frame for the proposed time that we should potter on Saturday and she gave non-committal answers like ‘We shall see’ and ‘It depends’.


Needless to say I don’t feel comforted by this; I could probably take it for a couple of hours but after that it would just become a chore.


I dared to ask whether I needed to clock in to planet pottering before we start but my words were lost on Mrs M who had set off to the basement with a dustpan and a giant sized list of her favourite jobs.


It seems right to me that if I am going to be forced to engage in work, by any other name, then I need to have the same conditions as with my weekly employment.


Health & Safety; I am sure that I need ladder training before attempting do anything above head height. I know that I need knife training before opening all the boxes of stuff left around after the house move. Surely I need manual handling training before I move any object over 10kg.


I asked my bride whether we should wait until I had attended all said courses and the documentation was completed but she wasn’t interested in my plea.


She did, however, offer me a bottle of red and lunch at my favourite Portuguese restaurant if I agree to take part in her plans.


‘And if I don’t?’ I asked tentatively.


‘You will get your pottering P45’ she replied ‘and the promised wine and griddled chicken will be removed from your wage packet’.


As an employer Mrs M knows how to deal; a life of pottering it is. I wonder how many days holiday I get a year!

Credit Crunch

In these days of our credit being crunched we all have to make little sacrifices. I for example am committed to making sure that we consume all of the food in the house before we shop for more.

When I announced my plan to the female members of the family it was treated with a high degree of derision.

I don’t know what they are complaining about we did this every year when we went camping; its amazing how breakfast cereal can bulk out a curry on the last night of a holiday.

I searched through the kitchen and found several tins that seemed to have been in the cupboard for years; mackerel fillets, pears, luncheon meat, sweet corn, and kidney beans. I can’t remember the last time I bought sweet corn and yet there always seems to be a tin in the cupboard.

I have to admit that I couldn’t find a suitable recipe to include them all so we had an omelette made with the eggs that were seconds from their sell by date.

For dessert I offered them crushed ginger snap biscuits heated with butter, topped with ice cream and toffee sauce, which everyone agreed, proved a great success.

During my search I discovered a new taste sensation that the rest of the family were quick to turn their noses up at. It was a combination of two of my favourite tastes that, coincidently, the rest of the family cannot abide.

Liquorice pieces dipped in Marmite.

I accept that some of you will be immediately disgusted by such a thought. But there will be some, just a few, who will find the whole idea intriguing and will be rushing to the kitchen to test it out.

My wife, ever the wit, patted me on my extra sized tummy and questioned whether it was pregnancy cravings.

I have a friend who has admitted to also being conscious of the need to make savings in their weekly grocery bill. He has, however, upset his wife in the process.

Being a keen fisherman he knows the intricacies of finding the best bate for successful angling. He slipped up by admitting that although he has made the sacrifice of buying the cheapest sweet corn for the family cupboard he has continued to buy the premium brand for his favourite hobby.

It seems that saving money is important but we all need the opportunity of making a luxury decision now and again. In light of this I suggested that each family member had the chance to nominate a couple things that would not be sacrificed as part of our economy drive.

The list included such minor luxuries as coffee and breakfast cereal but there were a few items that the female members of clan Molineaux were agreed on: Tomato Sauce, Shampoo, and Tea bags.

As for me; I was happy to concede that although most value options were worth trying I was adamant that neither Marmite nor liquorice would be sacrificed. I have my standards!

Monday Blues

It is amazing how the day of the week can have an effect upon your state of mind. Often people speak of the ‘Monday Blues’ or ‘that Friday feeling’.

There are some, just a few, who seem to ride through the week without such a sense; either by being constantly happy or permanently miserable.

Mrs M is convinced that the Monday blues do not affect her; I am quick to point out that this may be due to her not working on this day with the result of merely transferring the feeling to Tuesday.

At this point in our conversation my bride changes the subject towards the jobs at home that she performs in order to prove that she does indeed work on a Monday.

The list was endless and I eventually had to concede, party because I knew I had crossed a line in suggesting that she does not work at the beginning of the week and partly because I was distracted by midweek football on the telly.

It is interesting that each day of the week was named after something significant but has now just become a descriptive word to help us to plan our lives.

So whether Thursday is recognition of the god Thor or Monday is an acknowledgement of the moon is irrelevant to our daily lives.

Perhaps we need to think again about what we call them in light of our effected mood.

Monday could be ‘moan day’ to give understanding to our depressed association with returning to work after the weekend. In a similar way Friday could be designated as an extra day off and be known as ‘free day’.

Altogether a more pleasing way of looking at it I think.

I recently visited France for a few days with work and had the pleasure of meeting some of our fellow Europeans. I had in mind the British preoccupation with feelings being linked to certain days.

I was pleased to note that they too seemed affected in a similar way. At the beginning of the week there was a general lack of motivation visible. By the Friday they were a lot more upbeat as the thought of weekend came in view.

I cannot claim that there is any connection but I did notice that lunchtimes contained more red wine after Thursday than is usual back at home. The only celebration of the weekend that we indulge in is a bacon butty on Friday morning.

Perhaps this is it; for the French they are merry due to wine and we are merry due to eating pig on bread.

On returning from the continent I asked my wife to comment and she concluded teo things: Only a man would wonder about such things and only a man would be excited by the thought of a bacon butty. O Contraire!

Foraging

There was a time when Sunday afternoon TV was a family safe experience; apart from Songs of Praise that is.



Now, however, I am forced to get through my well-earned weekend slice of toast whilst watching someone called Bear Grylls eating all manner of creepy-crawlies.



As I write he has just caught a beetle, that seemed to be minding its own business, and popped it in his mouth without thought for what it might do for my digestion. He followed this less than appetising starter with a main course of moth maggot. He first removed its innards before consumption because otherwise, apparently, it would have been disgusting and contain something harmful. To say that he was trying to present it as an enjoyable experience he seemed to do a lot of spitting out.



I think the point of the show, apart from putting me off my mid afternoon snack, is to remind us of our long lost role as hunter-gatherers.



Well let me nail my colours to the mast and say that I am truly glad that we have moved from hunter-gatherers to shopper-baggers.



We might have become slaves to the sell-by date and the nutrition label but at least you know where you stand with a bag of salad leaf and a tin of tuna.



Whilst Bear forages in the undergrowth of Latin American countries I am happy to dodge the shopping trolleys of the Great British public in order to makes sure that my family doesn’t have to eat grubs and bugs; give me fruit and nut any day.



The only bit of foraging we do in the supermarket these days is when we chose loose fruit and veg rather the pre-packed product offered to us. Perhaps this is the retailer’s way of appealing to our basic need to feel as if we are fully involved in the gathering process.



This said, I have noticed a similarity between Bear Grylls and me on a Saturday trip to the shops; neither of us can get a plastic bag without an argument. His need for them is less than mine because he does tend to catch and eat his prey almost in one move.



When our kids where younger they seemed to have this immediacy as an in built mechanism when it came to the pick and mix sweet section. Whilst we parents were looking around the shelves for our required produce they would appear with chocolate stained faces.



My wife was always fearful that we might be challenged by the management about our children’s’ waywardness but I had a solution ready to offer the store in such circumstances.



They could weigh the child on the way into the shop and compare this with their weight at the exit and we would willingly pay for the difference.



I could, of course, just claim they were exercising their basic instinct to be true hunter-gatherers and if all else fails blame the influence of Bear Grylls.

VAT

We are just recovering from a week off work; we didn’t jet off to the sun we just enjoyed not having to follow the usual routine. When I was a kid this kind of holiday was described as ‘we just went out for days’.

I was ok with this for a while until my wife used the ‘p’ word again mixed liberally with the ‘s’ word; so we spent much of the week either pottering or shopping.

Neither of these two activities seem fitting for a proper relaxing holiday but my wife feels the whole idea is rather thrilling.

In truth I didn’t find the shopping part too much of a problem because it meant we were able to work our way through our Christmas present list, something we normally leave until nearer the 25th.

There was, however, a change that had taken place that seemed to have both shoppers and shopkeepers confused; the reduction in the rate of VAT.

Most establishments had signs on the doors proudly declaring that they would pass on the saving to the customers ‘at the till’. I presume because the cost of re-labelling would have meant a price rise thus defeating the object of the exercise.

Two things were disorientating about the whole thing. Firstly, our normal ability to roughly calculate the cost of our purchases was completely ruined. You could see customers expecting to pay £12.99 instead being asked to hand over £12.72.

We don’t work with 72p in our world. We always expect to pay a number ending in 99p. I just ended up with 28p of loose to carry home and put in the tin on my bedside table.

You could hear elderly couples asking each other ‘Is that right?’ and ‘I don’t know’.

It was like going back to the days of decimalisation when we went from 12d to the shilling to 20p.

Back then we all complained that the price of chips went up for no reason and never came down again. Ever price rise was blamed on the changeover.

I am predicting the same complaints to be popularised over the next six months as we all come to terms with the 2.5% change.

Not all of this saving can be easily passed on to the consumer; car parking meters for example will have to remain the same otherwise we will have to put in 39p for the hour rather than 40p.

I suppose the same is probably true for other vending machines.

There is one type of establishment that I feel particularly sorry for during this time of customer confusion; The Pound Shops. Will they have to change their signage to read The 97.98p Shop.

The Chancellors stated intention for the reduction was to stimulate the economy. I hope it does. I fear, however, the net result will be a rise in the price of chips and more loose change in the tin on my bedside table. Mark my words!

Facebook

In the days before twenty-four hour telly we kids would have to find many ways to entertain ourselves through the long summer break between school years. Nostalgia tells me that the weather was better then but only just; let’s face it, it couldn’t have been much worse.

My parents had a stereo record player and a collection of vinyl discs that represented something of their youth. We would listen to singles and albums, giving scores to each track as if we were experts on a TV programme.

After we had travelled down Penny Lane and boarded the Chattanooga Choo Choo (they had eclectic tastes) we would turn to an odd collection of records that contained the spoken word.

One of my favourites on offer was a record containing the radio shows of Tony Hancock. Much of the material was a little too subtle for a young mind to conceive but I recall laughing at lines about a pint of blood being ‘very nearly an armful’.

On the edition entitled ‘The Radio Ham’, Hancock relishes in the benefits of the latest technology allowing ordinary folk the opportunity of speaking to others via short wave radio. After asking a few people from as far away as the east Asia ‘What is the weather like?’ he muses on how he has made connection with so many people that he has never met.

‘Marvellous!’ he exclaims ‘To think I have friends all around the world’ because of this communicative invention. After a short pause he says, ‘None round here mind, but hundreds around the world’.

Today our children have much more to occupy their waking hours and so it is not surprising that many will not even know what short wave radio is never mind be aware of the comedy of Tony Hancock.

My girls have all joined Face Book on the internet; think personal scrapbook that you can share with others in a micro second. They show their favourite photographs to each other, comment on their lives, and join groups of others wishing to save the rain forest or ban quiche from Britain’s dining tables (there really is such a group).

Encouraged by their excitement, and the fact that we have heard of other wrinklies who have ventured into this brave new world, my wife and I signed up.

The basic idea is that you enter details about yourself on what is effectively your personal page and then you invite others to agree to be your friends. All of those who respond to your request can then see your information and you in return can see theirs.

Once the connections are made you are then offered friendships with the friends of your friends resulting in a list of people on your page that grows by the day; should you wish to accept them. Added to this list you can search for other people that you may have known from school and invite them to be connected to you as well.

My daughters have hundreds of names on their lists and I have regularly seen people who have in excess of five hundred people connected to their page.

During the time that you are on-line a box will appear giving you a list of other associates who are connected at the same time as you. You can then have a conversation with them by typing messages and waiting for replies.

So if you have a friend in Japan and want to know what the weather is like you no longer need to resort to short wave radio.

My wife has already amassed over one hundred names on her list and, for the record, I am running at about thirty.

It is not that Mrs M is more popular it is just that I am more selective in how I let my group grow – at least that is what I tell myself.

So what of those who have in excess of five-hundred friends? You have to ask what quality of relationships they are agreeing too.

Perhaps the danger is the same as with short wave radio; Hundreds of friends around the world………….but none round here.