Four Daughters, One Wife and Me

Dragons Den Rich List

2011-11-02T10:21:00.000-07:00

I have been enjoying the latest series of The Dragons Den. I say enjoying
even though I spend most of my time shouting at the TV in frustration. It’s
not the often inept presentation of the inventors and entrepreneurs, who
are trying to prise money out of the dragons that leads me to despair.

It is the way that the multi-millionaire stars seem to enjoy ridiculing
the poor fools who enter their lair. A young couple, who had invented what
seemed to be a quality product, have just been called naïve by the tall
one. Of course they are! They are nothing but kids and have only been in
business for a few months.

Its as if they want people to be the finished article when they arrive
into the den. But surely they wouldn’t need to ask for help if they knew
all the answers.

Apart from Theo mentioning his ‘children’s inheritance’ time and again it
is the lack of comprehension they show regarding they are giving away that
riles me up.

Duncan Banatyne, for example, is estimated to be worth £320m. During this
latest episode he offered £200k to a couple of inventors. Your initial
reaction might be one of amazement at such an investment.

This is such a small percentage of his overall wealth. If you or I had a
bank balance of £1000 it would be the equivalent of giving away 63p. That
would make the above investment mere loose change to a wealthy businessman.

I am not commenting on the integrity of Duncan and his fellow Dragons but
context always gives you the right perspective. I am sure they give many
thousands of pounds to charity every year and that such giving makes a
definable difference to needy causes, but let’s keep it in perspective.

A recent survey indicated that the lowest earners amongst our population
give a higher percentage of their income to charity. I am quite sure that
most of our people give more than 63p to charity each year.

Figures vary but most commentators reckon that the average annual giving
by British people is 0.8% of their yearly wage. I know many people who give
a lot more than this.

It has been moving to see the response of the British people to the
Pakistan flood victims. Whilst never enough a substantial amount has been
raised and most of seemingly by ordinary folk.

So whilst the Dragons enjoy publicity seeking in their den as they revel
in handing out spare cash to young hopefuls, the rest of us make a real
difference by pooling our resources to help those who don’t have the luxury
of owning any loose change.

Thread The Needle

2011-10-26T01:01:00.000-07:00

Following a recent cold snap Mrs M and I decided to bring out our winter
coats from hibernation. There is something both concerning and comforting
about such an event; concerning because I become all too aware of another
passing year. Comforting because I am reminded how much I love to wear my
winter coat.

As I pulled from its pockets old train tickets and a selection of receipts
I was reminded of some of the things we enjoyed during last winter. A trip
to York to visit our youngest daughter. A day out with our parents to
sample real ale and country fare in a Yorkshire dale’s village.

I tried the coat on to make sure that my summer intake of beer and pork
pies hadn’t enlarged my frame too much. With a gasp of success I exclaimed
that it still fitted me ‘like a glove’. But only just!

As I displayed my victory over the calories to Mrs M she reminded me that
there was a time when growing out of our clothes was seen as a normal part
of life.

We reminisced about the last few days of school summer holidays when our
parents would prepare for our return by buying new uniforms. My mother, as
with most other parents back then, would always buy my jacket a couple of
sizes too big.

Then, as I complained about it not fitting she would announce, as if
offering a timeless truth, ‘you will grow into it’.

And so I would turn up for that first day back at high school to meet all
my friends and compare how much of our hands were showing from beneath our
coat sleeves.

That was then, and this is now. I don’t need a new coat every year. I can
make my old faithful jacket work a treat. As I expressed this last
sentiment to my bride a button popped off as if to puncture my elation.

Not to be defeated I found the family sowing box and began the repair
process.

It is some time since I last tried to thread a needle and I don’t recall
having any difficult with the process. In fact I always prided myself on
being able to offer my mother support for such things.

Now, however, this seemingly simple exercise has turned into a major test
of my grown up abilities. No matter how much I squinted I could not get the
needle threaded.

I donned the reading glasses that I only need for ‘the smallest of
writing’ and still could not find a way to complete my task.

Not to be beaten I tried to find a bigger needle hoping that the eye would
be larger and give me a better chance to thread the cotton.

I am nothing if I am not a tryer and I swear that I missed several TV
programmes before I followed my mother’s example and asked for help from my
daughter.

Almost without taking her attention from the TV she threaded the needle
and handed it back. In an instant I realised what my mother felt like when
she had to rely on me for such tasks.

Once the job was done I put the coat to show the result of my work. As I
inhaled in order to fasten the buttons Mrs M offered me the following
comforting words ‘don’t worry you can slim into it’

Christmas Too Early

2011-10-19T10:12:00.000-07:00

Apparently a shopper with aspirations of being a social commentator has
again taken a stand against retailers stocking Christmas product too early.

The individual concerned has taken the bold step of re-labelling the
festive signs found in a supermarket with other home made slogans
including; ‘Not Yet Christmas’ and ‘Come Back In December’.

I am not sure what drove them to this end but the fact that they came
prepared suggest they had spent some time brewing their anger.

As funny as I find this action I am not advocating that we should all take
to the isles in such an act of defiance even though I can understand the
sentiment behind this latest protest.

I wonder if the store in question has any CCTV footage of the perpetrator
and whether they intend taking further action.

I can’t help thinking that life is meant to be seasonal and that having a
gap between summer and winter is good for us. They used to call this gap
autumn but now the edges of our historic divisions have been smudged.

All of this begs the question ‘when should the Christmas festivities
start?’

If we follow the song then we should start on the 24th December and
celebrate the twelve days of Christmas. If we enjoy the chocolate offered
by modern advent calendars then we would have to start at the very
beginning of the month.

Retailers, however, follow neither of these models and start well before
the rest of us have mourned the loss of summer. They then begin to rip
through the tinsel on Boxing Day to entice us in with massive sales.

Every family will have their own tradition and ours is no exception. The
tree is brought out on December the first and we begin our countdown to one
of our favourite holidays.

We often don’t even begin our shopping until this point. This will seem
odd to some. We have friends who begin buying their presents in the post
Christmas sales in preparation for the following year.

Whilst I admire their organisational skills in doing so, and the fact that
they save a good deal of money, I feel as if this is step too far for my
liking.

It also seems unfair to Santa (just in case we have younger readers) who
then has to store them for a full twelve months. This is a logistical
nightmare and must present health and safety issues in the North Pole.

You could imagine Father Christmas contacting his union in order to
complain about the extra workload. I wonder what type of action he might
take in order to place the celebrations firmly back where they have
traditionally been.
He could work to rule and only deliver to houses that still have chimneys.
He could limit his involvement to families that can be bothered to provide
mince pies and a tot of whiskey as he makes his travels.

Or he could visit the Bradford area in September and re-label the
Christmas decorations in a supermarket. I cant wait to see the CCTV
footage.

Student Waste Binb

2011-10-12T10:07:00.000-07:00

Last week my wife and I took one of our regular trips to York with the
intention of visiting our youngest daughter, who is attending university in
that fine city.

I say that she is attending this honoured place of learning without any
real evidence of this being true.

Back in the days of primary school we parents were almost completely
connected to the education process; letters from teachers, parent’s
evenings, assemblies all added to this connection.

By the time your children start to become embarrassed by your every move
they are protected by the high school years.

Then, before you can get used to sight of their first piercings, your
offspring are heading towards adulthood.

If it weren’t for the regular depletions from your bank balance and the
occasional Facebook messages you wouldn’t really know that university
exists.

On this recent trip our stated agenda was to visit our daughter and have a
spot of lunch. Not once was I told that we would spend a good amount of our
time cleaning her room and repairing various broken items.

Not that I resent this; I tend to be grateful for any contact with our
daughters even if I am valued by my usefulness.

What I mind is our continual pretence that we are making the forty-mile
journey merely for lunch.

As we began to wade through several months’ worth of student debris I
couldn’t help notice that although the floor was completely covered,
neither the waste bin nor the wash basket contained any items.

I commented that these containers resembled by bank account but mum and
daughter we enjoying putting clothes in the wardrobe. I have occasionally
tried this myself but I can’t say that I understand the thrill.

I think my enjoyment has been somewhat quashed by the constant comments
offered by my bride. It seems that you cannot count it as a successful
exercise if all the hangers are not placed on the rail facing the same way.
I tried to ask why this was important but my wife answered in her customary
fashion ‘If you don’t know then I cant explain it’.

I have a suspicion that it might be woman code for ‘I don’t really know
but I wont admit it’.

Either way, my youngest daughter and my bride of nearly thirty years, both
seemed to understand the rules of engagement without need for explanation.

Once the room was good enough to be photographed, and the said pic was
uploaded to Facebook, we headed off for lunch.

Before long my wife and I were reminiscing about our own student days and
Mrs Molineaux’s youngest commented about the similarities with her
experiences.

Our parents would often ask us about our studies and we would offer only
monosyllabic replies; much as our daughters have done to us.

‘Did you keep your rooms tidy’ our precious offspring enquired. We laughed
and then I pointed out that in comparison she was living in relative
luxury.

My waste bin was a plastic shopping bag and I used a pillowcase to hold my
washing. I confess that I did occasionally tidy up if things became too
untidy.

‘You have more motivation to clean your room’ Mrs M informed our daughter
‘So that the Facebook photograph looks good’.

The Genetic Factor

2011-10-05T10:15:00.000-07:00

Is anyone else a bit fed up of TV presenters telling us that the future of
their contestants depends on us? Whether it is singing wannabees or
celebrity dancers it seems that they just cannot manage without us.

This appears somewhat ironic given the fact that they present us with a
panel of experts all vying to give us their opinions.

‘If you don’t want your favourite to leave then pick up the phone now’ the
presenter informs the audience presuming that a) We have a favourite and b)
that we care enough to spend our money in order to secure their future.

Perhaps if they had a ‘none of the above’ option I might be more tempted
to take up the responsibility that they so freely offer me.

I expressed this thought to Mrs M and she suggested that I was looking at
the whole thing a little too negatively. She even intimated that I might
feel more at home watching Grumpy Old Men.

Perhaps she has a point but I can’t help feeling that these programmes
bring out the worst in me.

I wonder how long it will be before newscasters start asking us to vote on
which headlines they cover. Or when weather reporters start running a
phone-in competition so that we can decide the kind of weather we should
have.

This all sits well with the media obsession of getting the public’s
opinion on virtual every subject you can name. They start by asking a few
well-educated professionals to start the debate rolling. Then before you
know it they are on the streets to ask Doris from Bolton what she thinks
about genetic modification.

Not that people christened Doris, nor indeed the residents of Bolton,
have the right to speak; it’s just that I am not sure whether either label
qualifies you to have a useful viewpoint on multi cellular organisms.

Perhaps the future of genetic engineering is more important than the X
Factor (although you wouldn’t know that from the viewing figures) but I
don’t really care what Doris thinks about either and I am quite sure that
my thoughts are equally useless in such things.

I expressed this opinion to Mrs M and she replied ‘You are making the huge
assumption that Doris doesn’t have a PHD in such matters or that she
doesn’t work as a record producer.’

I detected that she was offering a little too much sarcasm so I explained
to her why she was missing the point but she was too busy listening to
Simon Cowell destroy another young hopefuls dreams.

If you want my unqualified opinion, if it wasn’t for genetics the X Factor
wouldn’t be nearly as popular as it is.

Coming Up

2011-09-28T10:19:00.000-07:00

Mrs M and I are committed telly watchers. We always have been but
especially so when our four daughters were younger and funds were limited.
Once the kids were fast asleep in bed we would hope and pray that there
would be something good to watch for the last hour of the evening before we
collapsed in to bed.

We are not just a family of TV ‘watchers’, we also try to be fully engaged
with the process; commenting on the storylines, arguing about which
contestant is our favourite, and occasionally shouting in the direction of
the screen if we find something to disagree with. This last one is usually
my practice and tends to annoy the other family members but at least I have
stopped throwing things at the TV these days.

Although we had the luxury of a video player back then most of our tapes
were either cartoons or compilations of home movies. Not like today when we
have so much technology available to aid us in our free time.

One of our most favourite of the new inventions is the ability to record
most of our favourite programmes using something called series link.

In addition to the fact that we very rarely miss episodes we are also able
to fast forward past the adverts. This has increasingly brought to our
attention the fact that an hour of TV only contains about forty minutes of
the actually programme.

If this is not bad enough there is the use of a phrase that I have come to
quite literally detest. It is employed in nearly every show and without any
sense of how it affects the viewer’s experience.

The phrase is ‘coming up’.

It is used just before the advert break and seems to suggest that TV
producers have very little confidence in either their product or their
viewers.

They must assume that we will get distracted during the ad break and
forget what we were watching. So they try to tantalise us with snippets of
what is about to happen.

Well I would like to announce to these producers that I am not interested
in what is coming up until it arrives; so stop telling me what I am about
to see.

You might feel my annoyance coming through these words but don’t be too
concerned because my pain has been alleviated by the fact that we can now
fast forward past such nonsense.

Added to this ability to eliminate this TV chaff is the fact that I can
increase my engagement with programme by shouting at the screen ‘we are not
interested in what is coming up!’, before pressing the fast forward button
on the remote control.

Dedicated Follower of Fashion

2011-09-21T10:10:00.000-07:00

I have just put my holiday hat away to hibernate for the winter. Using all
the skills of a Blue Peter presenter I stored it in a box at the back of my
wardrobe making sure that there was enough air circulation to ensure it
emerges undamaged next year ready for the baking heat of a British summer.

Whilst completing this important process I found a couple of items that
have managed to avoid Mrs M's regular clothes cull. She does one of these
quite regularly, spurred on by some charity or other that has kindly
dropped a bin liner through our door.

I often wonder whether it is our need to follow fashion rather than our
support for the concerned charity that drives such action.

Here, however, I had found some clothes that had avoided the cull.

Firstly there were my old jogging bottoms circa 1988. Made of shiny
material with two long stripes running up each leg, they included the
helpful feature of a small zip near each ankle so that you could take them
off without removing your footwear.

I have worn them very occasionally during the intervening years but I have
to confess they don’t offer the same comfort they did when I was in my
twenties.

I tried them on and posed for my wife, holding in my stomach, and hoping
to look at least a little sportsman like. Mrs M seemed more amused than
impressed.

‘It would work if you had a moustache and a curly perm’ she offered.

‘I think there is still a little life in them’ I replied. At this point my
bride’s laughter subsided to be replaced with a slight look of fear at the
thought that I might actually wear them outdoors.

‘Don’t worry’ I said hoping to offer comfort ‘I will wait until they come
back in fashion’

I said this in certain knowledge that, apart from the cod piece and the
Bay City Roller tartan trousers, everything else does seem to return to the
forefront again.

Just as I have managed to afford some small framed, branded reading
glasses, it seems that the old style large specs are making a come back;
think Deirdre Barlow and Richard Whitely.

We have seen a few celebrities wearing such items recently on TV and
commented how ridiculous they look.

Most people react like this when, in truth, it is not long before the
irresistible need to conform overtakes them and they start wearing what
they once ridiculed.

The second item I found during my holiday hat hibernation ritual was a
shirt on which the collar and cuffs are a different colour to the main
body.

I tried to model this for my wife too but ended up feeling a little
depressed as I tried to fasten the buttons and failed.

‘If I had managed to fasten them’ I said pushing through my sadness ‘I
think I could have pulled it off’.

‘If you had managed to fasten them' commented Mrs M 'we would have had to
cut it off with the scissors’ Then she rolled her eyes in a way that has
never gone out of fashion.

Football Crazy

2011-09-07T10:53:00.000-07:00

The football season has well and truly begun and I am feeling a great sense of excitement. This might not seem surprising if you were to know that I was a football fan. Given the disappointment of last year’s World Cup I had thought that I would devote less time to the Nation’s favourite sport.

Yet, as soon as the first whistle blew on the Community Shield Cup back in August my interest returned in spades.

Part of the fun is the regular conversation I have with some of my closest friends; most of whom support different teams than me.

I was speaking with once such friend, who is a Liverpool fan, just a few days ago. After I reminded him that his team play in an orangey-red and therefore must be inferior to United, I asked him where they were in the league at the moment.

His answer made me laugh because it displayed the full partisan feeling experienced by most fans. ‘They are joint sixth’ he said with a decent sense of pride having seen them sitting just above the relegation zone only a few weeks earlier.

‘Don’t you mean ninth?’ I enquired seeing through his plan to spin the situation like a good politician. ‘It depends how you look at it’ he replied.

He confessed that had Everton been in the same position he would have definitely called it ninth place.

Another of my long time friends is a Newcastle fan with whom I have spent many happy hours talking about every aspect of football over the years. Several months ago I found out that he had sadly past on after battling several of the complications that life often throws at some of the world’s loveliest people.

When talking about Mark’s favourite team I would often quote to him a phrase from the funeral service ‘we sorrow but not as those without hope’.

He would usually reply with some humorous comment whilst acknowledging that being a Magpie fan was often a difficult experience. The humour was useful in deflecting from many of the other struggles he faced and I am glad to say that before he died he learned that his beloved team had beaten Arsenal away from home.

For Mark and me, football became our touch point, so that in the midst of the pain we could find some enjoyment talking about our common passion.

In years gone by we would often watch a match on TV; me in bold red and him in black and white stripes, to ensure that our rivalry, although friendly, would be apparent.

He used to regularly remind me that I couldn’t be a true Man United fan because I didn’t have a southern accent. I would respond by asking him whether the till beeped when he walked though the supermarket looking like a bar code.

In addition to this passion for football Mark also had a belief that there was a future after this life was over. He would tell me that this gave him a lot of strength to deal with his difficulties.

As I think of him now I remember my oft quoted phrase ‘we sorrow but not as those without hope’ and am hoping it might be helpful for the whole of life and not just for football.

Whistle Me Up Scotty

2011-09-07T10:04:00.000-07:00

Whilst in the doctor’s surgery last week I was arrested by a strange noise
that evoked memories of my youth. Another patient was waiting for his turn
to be treated (an odd word for an experience that seems to be far from
anything resembling a treat).

Rather than spend the time reading tired copies of Readers Digest he
amused himself by whistling. This in itself might not seem an unusual
occurrence. However this musician, for that is what his skill obviously
made him, was purposefully producing a melody.

Indeed he seemed to be working his way through a selection of Glen Miller
tunes.

If it were not for the modern surroundings of the newly built health
centre I could have sworn that I had been transported back to my late
sixties childhood.

The rise of the MP3 player and mobile phone seems to have all but put an
end to the long lost art of whistling.

When I was a kid every tradesman worth his salt could belt out a
recognisable tune as he climbed ladders, hammered in nails, or painted
window frames.

Today people have music available in any and every situation and so there
no need to amuse oneself and others making melody through pursed lips

A couple of younger folk in the surgery looked across at our waiting room
musician as if he was a little odd.

This seemed rather strange to me if not a little sad.

Today it is not unusual to see someone walking through a town centre,
plugged into a mobile phone, in full conversation.

For a split second I am convinced that they must be talking to themselves.
In the days of my youth the only people who did this were those of a more
delicate disposition.

What a change in a mere four decades. It is now acceptable behaviour to
walk around having disconnected conversations yet if you whistle you look
like a mad man.

I was walking through Leeds Railway station looking for my connecting
train when a young lady appeared from the steps declaring 'it's the wrong
way and if you don't change you will be late'.

The fact that she was looking directly at me seemed to indicate that her
comments were aimed at me. Not so! She was engaged in a mobile conversation
with someone from her office. She happened to look at me because my
eighteen stone frame happened to be directly in her path at this very
moment.

For a split second I prepared to answer her but fortunately realised the
situation in time to spare my blushes.

Such mobile conversations would have seemed futuristic when I was a lad,
confined to the likes of Star Trek.

Matter Transmitters, Phasers, Warp Drive, and tiny electronic
communication devices were all the stuff that fed a young boys imagination.

Most of these technologies haven't been invented yet but one out four
ain't bad.

Nobody has yet found a way of separating the component parts of flesh in
order to reconstitute it again; unless you count chicken nuggets.

Warp speed would be a complete waste of time given the near gridlock we
experience at rush hour.

The nearest thing we have to Phasers are the police use of tasers; even
then the sight of a long wire shooting out of a gun is hardly space age.

I should have seen these changes coming, after all you never saw Captain
Kirk whistling on Star Trek.

I Really Don't Like Mondays

2011-08-31T00:58:00.000-07:00

Not too long ago the news came out that the BBC had apologised to Sir Bob Geldof.
Why, you may ask! Was it for not giving airtime to the Boomtown Rats
re-release of ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’ in the mid nineties? Or for not
forcing him to visit the hair and makeup department before appearing on
Parkinson a several years ago?

No! This recent apology was for alleging that a good proportion of money
raised through his various Live Aide projects had not reached the intended
victims of famine. In fact they claimed that some of the funds had been
used to buy weapons.

The original piece, given by BBC World Service Africa editor Martin Plaut,
was first broadcast back in March and then followed up with a discussion on
Andrew Marr’s Sunday morning programme.

I am sad to hear the news of these editorial failings for a number of
reasons, not least because the BBC directly benefited from the Boomtown
Rat’s efforts by having hours and hours of live music footage that all but
guaranteed them huge audience figures.

Who can forget Status Quo’s opening rendition of their hit ‘Rocking All
Over The World’ or Freddie Mercury’s Queen getting the crowds to respond
with ‘We Will Rock You’. Or even Sir Bob passionately shouting ‘Give us yer
money!’

All these years later perhaps my greatest disquiet is the fact that such
allegations only feed the growing feeling of disconnection felt by the
British public and our long history of generosity.

I often hear people declare that they didn’t give to a particular cause
because they were unsure whether the funds would reach their intended
target. Giving then becomes secondary exercise and we all too easily find
an excuse for our lack of generosity.

For sure charities need to act responsibly but scare story headlines like
the one offered by the BBC are hard to argue against for all but the
largest charities meaning that there remains in the public consciousness a
nagging doubt about the validity of any future requests for help.

The regular phrase trotted out by people wishing to avoid helping those in
greater need is ‘charity begins at home’ and one cant help feel that in the
present credit crunch crisis we are going to hear it a lot more.

If you take it to it’s logically conclusion it would mean that families
would just end up giving money to themselves; which is not charity. When
our four daughters were teenagers you could be forgiven for thinking that
they saw my bank account as a form of charity but I hardly think that
counts.

There are thousands of good causes in this country and they represent
something of the DNA of this great nation. The money raised Sir Bob, Midge,
and the Live Aid team changed real lives in foreign places and, in an
almost unseen way, changed real hearts in this land. At a time where market
forces were being seen as the great driver of everything, ordinary people
made a small stand for something bigger than their own personal gain.

If I could meet Sir Geldof I would want to thank him for two things;
firstly that I can accompany my morning blues with few lines from ‘I don’t
like Mondays’ and thus realise I am not alone. Secondly, for waking us up
to the need in far off countries and to our collective ability to make a
difference.

The Limping Sportsman

2011-08-24T10:30:00.000-07:00

I entered this year with the good intention of talking regular exercise has been somewhat thwarted by some knee pain that I have been labelling as a sports injury. Mrs M seems intent on ridiculing this description by telling everyone that it happened in the local pub.

In this she is correct but I still maintain that sport was directly involved in bringing on the pain I now feel.

I was playing crib with two friends and my ninety-year old father in law whilst keeping one eye on the TV that was showing the other drinking regulars the selected game of football.

Being a dutiful son-in-law I was determined to ensure my wife’s dad had a peaceful night, given he is a mere ten years off reaching his century, by making all the trips for ale on his behalf.

As I rose from the table attempting one such trip I intended heading left towards the bar when the rest of our party made the ‘someone has nearly scored’ noise that football fans make in unison. Because the TV was on the opposite side of the room I instinctively tried to turn right to view the spectacle but had already put most of my weight in the other direction; thus twisting my knee and causing the said sports injury.

Who knew a game of crib could be so dangerous?

Not long after this incident I visited my father who is recovering well from a hip operation. I, of course, told him the full tale without pausing to allow Mrs M to express her opinion on such matters.

My dad nodded his understanding with a smile and we walked toward lounge to continue our conversation about leg related pain. At this point my bride and my mother started to chuckle in the way that wives do when they have noticed some deficiency in their husbands world.

‘You are both limping in the same way’ my mother exclaimed continuing to laugh at us in our hour of need.

‘You could borrow your dad’s walking stick’ added Mrs M as if we weren’t already in enough pain.

On our return to the Aire Valley I determined that this injury was not going to make me look like an old man before my time; well not in public at least.

With this in my mind yesterday I agreed to walk the two miles to the office and determined not make any of the whining noises that had become part of my custom.

What I didn’t account for when I made this decision was the fact that we live in one of the hilliest parts of the country. And it seems that when you have a sports related knee injury walking down hill is far harder than walking up hill.

As we turned the last corner before arriving at our destination Mrs M tripped ever so slightly.

‘Oops’ she said steadying herself by holding my arm ‘I don’t want to have a sports injury’

‘You couldn’t use that term for it anyway’ I replied laying claim to the title.

‘Fell walking is more of a sport than cribbage’ she replied, once again believing she had won the argument.

I limped off in a sportsman like manner without saying a word,

Mrs M is the Hot One

2011-08-17T10:38:00.000-07:00

Mrs M and I have been under the weather over the last seven days. I am tempted to call it flu but I have used the word too often to make it stick now. The fact that my bride shares the same symptoms allows me to let her make this call; after all she is the nurse in the family.

In between regular doses of paracetamol, one of the spin-offs from being ill is that you have the pleasure, if I may use such a word, of watching daytime telly; much of which is rather banal.

Perhaps that’s what you need when you can’t concentrate on anything more significant; TV that doesn’t stimulate too much.

I had often heard it said that we Brits have an obsession with the weather but now I have had it confirmed by the fact that all of the news programmes have covered the snowfall from every conceivable angle.

They usually start with a reporter stood near snowdrifts. I presume they feel this helps us viewers to realise how truly cold it is. We are then shown footage of abandoned cars and pensioners being helped from isolated buildings.

Following information about how many roads are affected we are shown video clips of the many schools that have been closed across the region.

They always seem to close the report with scenes of kids sledging so that we are not left feeling too depressed by our countries inability to deal with adverse weather conditions.

Drivers of 4 x 4 vehicles have come out well in most of the reports. It appears that not only do they have cars that don’t struggle with snow but they are also extremely neighbourly.

Mrs M and I have also received good support from friends and family during this winter illness; they have been more than willing to come to our aid by providing much needed food and supplies.

I have managed to get the shop myself during moments when I have felt slightly better but have faced a significant challenge when it comes coping with being ill: in most shops I am only allowed to buy two packets of pain killers.

Here is the main problem. We have two sick adults in the house who are fully committed to using painkillers in order to get through and yet I am forced to visit several shops in order to buy in a sufficient supply for our needs.

When your main goal is to keep your temperature down it really matters that you have drugs available on demand. In fact we have an electronic thermometer and therefore can accurately monitor the effects of our malaise at regular intervals.

Because of this I can confidently announce that for the first time in our thirty years together I am officially hotter than my wife.

In order to deal with our painkiller shortages I have had to recruit several friends to visit local shops to in order to provide a regular supply. I am not sure that turning such good people into potential drug dealers is what they intended when they decided to limit how many packets each person could buy.

Mrs M is keen that I receive my supply of pills so that she can remove me from my position as the hot one in our relationship.

Hot Chilli

2011-08-10T10:27:00.000-07:00

If asked my family will tell you I am a decent cook. In truth I have learnt to make a few meals well enough to fool everyone in to believing that I know what I am doing. Mrs M gave me the ultimate compliment a few days ago when she said that she generally prefers to eat my food than what we have when we eat out. I need to point out, however, that she only said this in response to the pressure I was giving her to make a decision about what she wanted from the menu at a local Indian restaurant. It seems that it is the quality of my food that has made it almost impossible for her to make a speedy decision.

When it comes to choosing a curry my wife and I have different approaches. Mrs M goes for the relative safety of a fairly mild option, whereas I like a dish that will put up something of a fight. When the food arrives we do the husband and wife thing of trying each other’s dishes only to return to our own version of the perfect curry.

I do tend to avoid the infamous Vindaloo these days normally stating the apocryphal story that it is not authentically Asian and was only made to placate the often drunk British punter, who wanted a hotter dish than was normally available, to feed his larger fuelled hunger. Whether or not Vindaloo means ‘the one with the potato’, said to have been used to distinguish it from other dishes, I no longer choose to eat it.

In truth it is too hot for me these days and tends to bring on both an attack of perspiration and the threat of tears. Don’t think, however, that I have stopped liking spicy food altogether.

At home I will occasionally make a chilli that contains fire and usually the family appreciate it in silence. It is one of those dishes that stops you worrying about the general pressures of life by firmly locating you in the moment.

If it were not for the possibility of indigestion it would be perfect to get rid of one’s thoughts just before you go to sleep. Or perhaps it would work as breakfast in order to remove any potential worries for the day.

It would certainly be better than the rabbit food that Mrs M usually makes me eat. I recently tried to protest about this produce by suggesting that now I am over fifty some of its contents are a little too hard for my teeth.

Unfortunately my bride bought me some porridge as an alternative but this is even worse than the rabbit food. Firstly, it takes more effort than I am willing to expend on a breakfast that doesn’t contain bacon. Secondly, it is only a healthy option if you refrain from adding sugar or honey, or indeed anything else that would make it taste of anything palatable.

On reflection the porridge does have something in common with my hot chilli; both them have the ability to distract you from the worries of the day. One by filling your mouth with fire; the other by filling your life with boredom and your mouth with wallpaper paste.

The Whole Truth and Nothing But.....

2011-08-03T10:32:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I am growing cynical in my middle age but somehow I cannot watch the television news without wondering to myself whether we are being presented with the whole story.

They seem to take a subject then present the most ludicrous extremes of the argument as if there are no other alternatives.

Thank goodness we have hit Christmas time so that we can have the balance of the nativity story to keep our feet on the ground.

Having said this it occurs to me that the same thought often came to mind when I used to watch our daughters performing as angels in the school version of the tale; this is not the whole story.

If you were to remove from the tableau the various bits of tradition that have been added over the years and the copious amounts of tinsel, silver paper, runny noses, and tea towels, what would we be left with.

Perhaps it would be a tale of enemy occupation, corrupt government, ethnic cleansing, and asylum seekers. All too familiar stories that seem to be often repeated on our news screens.

I understand that primary school teachers would be hounded out of their classrooms if they were to invest time in such subjects at what has become the season to party and enjoy the excesses we have become used to.

I feel sure, however, that we miss some of the subtlety of the scene. The promise that we are not left alone in our helplessness. The hope that one a day a child would be born who would bring about a different way of seeing the world. The reality that those in power don’t like such grass roots ideas. Even perhaps the possibility that there is some purpose in this corner of the universe!

One thing is for certain in the tale that we have come to know as the nativity; it is not the whole story. The main characters all seem to be the wrong type of people for such a seemingly important event. They had ancestors who were murderers and prostitutes. They were from the wrong part of the country. Without any connections that would make them seem powerful. Perhaps there is hope for us all.

One wonders how such a story would be covered by today’s television media. Would they interview the wise men about possible delays in travelling across borders during the holiday season? Or perhaps run a documentary series on the corruption in corridors of local government.

They would probably try to find a quirky angle from which to view the whole thing. Perhaps it would be the various uses of camel dung or the problems of finding hotel accommodation at the time of a census.

One thing is for sure; it would not be the whole story.

Thank goodness we have discovered the true meaning of Christmas today. Nigella Lawson’s recipe for goose-fat roast potatoes. The infamous cola advert. The office party. The vast amounts of money spent on presents.

And enough alcohol to cover up any thoughts of ethnic cleansing or a supposed visit from a deity in the form of a baby. Perhaps the newscasters have understood us well; after all we don’t really like the whole story.

Heroes Needed

2011-07-27T10:35:00.000-07:00

No sooner had the winner of the X Factor been announced a few months ago than I saw a Twitter message by Steve Brookstein. ‘Who?’ you well may ask.

Steve won the competition six years ago and now, according to his recent message, was singing to twenty people in a coffee shop.

So as Matt Cardle sets off towards gaining his almost certain Christmas number one record spare a thought for all the forgotten winners whose dreams have been turned in to….well perhaps not nightmares, but you know what I mean!

Just think about other winners and runners-up; Andy Abraham, G4, Ray Quinn, Leon Jackson, and Rhydian Roberts. The memories are rushing back in.

In truth I remember very little about any of them.

Will the same fate be handed out to the latest winner Matt or will he gain international stardom along with the likes of Leona Lewis.

Just prior to the winner being announced we celebrated the 49th wedding anniversary of some very dear friends of ours. This quiet meal for a dozen friends could well have gone unnoticed by the other customers of the restaurants and yet for those involved it was a special occasion. Our happy couple are at an age where they too must go unnoticed by most of society. We tend to do this with age as if those with the most experience of life have nothing to offer the rest of us less experienced travellers.

The gentleman of our couple was one of the Ambulance heroes of the Bradford City fire all of those years ago. He doesn’t talk about it too freely but every now and then, when pressed, will tell a little of the trauma of that day and how so many people worked tirelessly to rescue those in greatest need.

Our time at the restaurant celebrating this precious couple seemed somewhat at odds with the celebrity culture honoured by programmes such as the X Factor.

Our ambulance hero has never sought the limelight as for many years he served his beloved Yorkshire, yet on one fateful Saturday in May his daily job became linked with the stuff of headlines.

The rest of who looked on back in 1985, hoping that our loved ones were not caught up in the blaze, will always remember the bravery of those who came to the rescue. Yet we do so without knowing their names for this is not the same remembering that is demanded by the celebrity culture. It is more important than that.

So as Steve Brookstein becomes a casualty of Simon Cowell’s fame machine its hard to have too much sympathy. He knew what he was getting in to and he must have known that it wasn’t really about music; it never is.

And as Matt Cardle’s new song hits the airwaves this Christmas lets take the time to remember some of the heroes in our locality who are all too easily forgotten.

I wonder what incredible stories we might uncover as we do. Perhaps there are other heroes of the Bradford fire who deserve the chance to be honoured by simply taking the time to listen to their stories. They had the X factor back then and, as we have found out with our dear friends, they still have the X factor now; it just isn’t about singing.

Come to think of it neither is the Simon Cowell version.

Middle Class Commoner

2011-07-20T10:44:00.000-07:00

It's not very often these days I am made to feel aware of my social
class. This could be due to the general lack of awareness I have as to
my surroundings or it may be that life has changed so much that such
things no longer have any meaning.

There is, of course, the odd time that I drop an aitches in polite
conversation and find someone wanting to correct me. And every now and
then someone might make a comment about their school and I am distinctly
reminded that the variety I attended was the second class modern type.

It was as if they were training us to be working class. The careers
teacher actually laughed at me when I informed him that I wanted to
become a maths teacher. Instead he sent me off for an interview at a
local engineering works. I didn't get the job partly because he sent
every other boy to the same interview. The guy who took the interview
sounded decidedly middle class not that I was really aware of what
difference it made.

Now, as the newsreels have been resounding with the news of a royal
wedding, we are informed that the future royal, Kate Middleton, is in
fact middle class.

This may not come as a surprise other than the fact that her parents
are millionaires. Herein lies the problem; how do we decide what counts
as lower, middle, or upper class in an age of egalitarian aspiration.

I was born to working class parents in suburb or a northern town. I
never considered myself to be anything other than working class and yet
several decades later I became a manager in a large company. Perhaps
during this time my staff would have considered me a traitor to by roots
but somehow I felt just the same as I had did all those years ago.

So what is it that determines ones class? Your parents, your job, your
wealth, your accent, your postcode, your attitude, or the school you
attended.

Whatever it is I am sure that our newest royal has no control over it.
Either the media, or the Great British public, or both will decide and
pass judgement accordingly. One report not only described her as middle
class but also a commoner.

I was intrigued to find that on hearing the engagement announcement
that one TV news company commissioned a poll to discover what the rest
of us commoners thought about it. It informed us that 62% of us had no
opinion what so ever.

Perhaps that is the real test of whether you are a commoner; you don't
have a significant opinion on the royalty or who they should marry.

The poll did reveal that men out number women when it comes to such
apathy. My wife often tells me that my behaviour is a little common.
This could explain why I didn't get the engineering job; or indeed
become a maths teacher.

I take it that Her Royal Highness the Queen approves of William's
choice of bride despite her more humble status, so that should be good
enough.

In that respect she has a lot in common with Mrs M, who informs me that
she wouldn't have protested had one of our girls decided to marry a
prince. She is definitely not a commoner.

Good Companions

2011-07-13T12:43:00.000-07:00

We had the pleasure of recently attending a performance at Bingley Little Theatre. I am sad to say that since we moved here in 2005 we have not paid a visit until now.

We were invited by our dear friend Doris along with a bunch of other friends.

I have to confess that it is the best part of two decades since I attended an am-dram production and so I had to become quickly accustomed to the feel of watching a live performance during which you can’t do many of the things you have become used to at home.

You know what I mean; arguing about who is going to put the kettle on, shouting at the TV when Simon Cowell destroys another one of the hopeless contestants on The X Factor, or pausing the programme whilst you nip to the loo.

Such behaviour is not allowed in the theatre it seems after all you can hardly ask the performance to wait a moment whilst you run to the toilet.

This being said Mrs M and I joined the other ‘theatre-goers’ (for that is what we now were) and took our seats to watch JB Priestly’s Good Companions.

It was the most enjoyable evening and I judged it as a triumph for a number of reasons; Firstly, within the first couple of minutes I had stopped seeing the performers as actors and believed them to be their characters. Secondly, the time went by so very quickly.

It was a great performance and an enjoyable experience; one which I hope to repeat again soon. I am slightly surprised that it has taken me so long to get there given the fact that I really enjoy community events, however large or small they may be.

It is tempting to think that only the larger well attended events can be considered as successful. Yet our towns and villages are filled with programmes that could be considered as insignificant to the rest of the world. In fact these moments act as the glue that holds our communities together.

Not too long ago I had the pleasure of celebrating the ninetieth anniversary of the Royal British Legion.

The Legion had organised an event in our local town centre to remember the great work that this organisation has done over the years.

It was a typical small town, British event. I say this not as a compliment. It had bands, and stalls, and food, and drink, and entertainment. Given that it was held in this country it also had rain.

Perhaps the organisers would have felt a little downhearted at the weather but the event was a success in so many other ways. They had managed to bring the community together and celebrated their excellent organisation’s anniversary.

Both occasions display what is best about our community; real people using their skills to provide a place for people to connect. For me this was a great antidote to the world view propagated by shows like the X-Factor.

I for one was glad to have attended both the play and the anniversary celebration. We made new friends at the Royal British Legion and we attended Good Companions with our own good companions.

The Paperless Office

2011-07-09T10:00:00.000-07:00

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.

We already have a good collection of mobile phones between us; the irony here is that whenever I try to call them I never seem to get a reply. Such is life.

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.

Sister Act

2011-07-05T00:25:00.001-07:00

I heard this week that a Spanish nun has been sacked from her religious order for spending too long on the social networking site Facebook. It seems that 54 year old Sister Maria, who had been in the organisation for 35 years, was enjoying making friends from all around the world; six hundred in total.

It is hard to resist imagining it was like a scene from The Sound of Music, where the more senior nuns break out in to song with a melancholic rendition of ‘How do you solve a problem like Maria’.

Sister Internet, as she was known by the other residents of the convent, now lives with her mother and plans to visit some of the places she has become acquainted with whilst surfing the net.

It probably shouldn’t surprise us that computers have become so popular with such a wide variety of people. Our dear friend Mel, who is several years into his retirement, has joined the growing band of Silver Surfers.

Mel was an ambulance driver for most of his working life and has seen many changes over his lifetime. He tells me that when he first started in the service they still had ambulances with mechanical bells fitted.

The speed of change in technology is breathtaking and one wonders where the next century will take the human race.

Consider for a moment that there was a mere 84 years gap between Karl Benz offering the first commercially available car in 1885 and Neil Armstrong’s giant leap for mankind as he landed on the moon in 1969.

Back then, when Sister Maria would have been more likely singing ‘I am thirteen going on fourteen’ she must have been aware of the moon landing would probably not have understood its significance. Teenagers would have been more interested in pop music rather than lunar landings.

The compact cassette had only just arrived on the mass market and so most of our music was still on vinyl. My own teenage record collection took up three LP cases and several boxes for singles. I guess that would have been around 1500 tracks and would have filled the boot of a small car.

Today I have a mobile phone that can hold twice as many songs and fits into my jeans pocket. Oh the speed of change!

I was discussing the development of mobile phones with my daughters just a few ago and they were amazed to hear that back in the sixties my parents had our first phone fitted in the house. It was what was known as a party line. This was a way of having a more affordable phone line by sharing it with someone else in the village.

Before being able to make a call we had to check that the other ‘party’ was not speaking to someone. This all seems so very old fashioned now.

Although I look back with fondness on these times I would not swap any of our modern gadgets that have come to enhance our lives: mobile phone, dishwasher, computer, internet, satnav, George Foreman Grill, not to mention the advances in medical science.

To quote another song from the Sound of Music ‘These are a few of my favourite things’.

Football Down The Pub

2010-08-14T01:27:00.001-07:00

I have been looking at the computer screen trying to think of something to
write about that doesn’t include South Africa or football. Well I cant!
Mainly because, like a good number of other middle aged men, I have become
nine years old again.

I have kept the World Cup planner from the newspaper. I have bought an
England flag, an England air freshener, and a red and white hat.

I even spent a whole evening putting the fixtures into the calendar on my
iPhone even though I had previously bought an app (phone programme)
containing the full details.

To many of you, including Mrs M, this will all sound a little sad. In fact
my wife is under the impression that I might have World Cup Tourettes
because every now and then I get the urge to shout ‘Come on England’.

I know that I am not alone in this; every where I go I see grown men
gazing at newspapers and magazines containing details of the happenings
taking place on the African continent.

I spoke to an old school friend today and within seconds our conversation
became focussed on this, our favourite subject. My old pal is a Manchester
City fan whilst I support the team in red. This did not matter, however, as
we became joined as fellow supporters of our national team.

I mentioned Mrs M’s view that I might have World Cup Tourettes and he
chuckled as he told me about his need to sing the England football song
Three Lions at the top of his voice whilst alone in his car.

My wife said this confirmed her theory that the only difference between
men and cheese is that eventually the latter matures. I detected a little
too much sarcasm than I thought was necessary.

I enquired as to whether she was in any way excited about the competition.
‘A little she replied’ doing a mock Mexican wave as she sat on the sofa.

No matter, I continued with my pre-tournament preparations which included
ensuring that every TV in the house had good reception just in case we get
a failure, and fitting the flag to my otherwise unpatriotic car.

Mrs M, in a bid to manage my expectations, suggested that I book in for
some therapy should they not make it past the first round.

‘Therapy?’ I replied ‘I will form a whole support group should that
happen’.

‘And where would you hold these sessions’ enquired my bride.

‘Down the pub’ I replied.

My wife did a second mock Mexican wave and I am sure I heard her say ‘Come
on England’ as she left the room.

World Cup Tourettes must be catching.

- Posted from my iPhone

Britain's Traditional Instrument

2010-07-02T10:26:00.001-07:00

My World Cup tourettes has fast disappeared and been replaced by a self-help mantra.

I had spent the last few weeks randomly shouting 'come on England' at the sight of a St George's flag but now the nine year-old boy inside this middle-aged man has grown quiet and ever so slightly melancolic.

I have replaced my football chant with the one my wife regularly used in the lead up to the competition. Trying to convey that she didn't know what all the fuss was about she would offer 'it's only game'.

Before England's demise I would take the time to explain why she was mistaken in her view. Now it seems to offer only the slightest amount of comfort.

Mrs M, in an attempt at soothing my disappointment, removed all the England flags from the car whilst I was otherwise distracted.

It was a caring thing to do but the car, once proud, patriotic, and positive, now looked sad and ordinary.

It seems we were not alone in wanting to remove any reminders of our defeat. The streets around our home, which were once a proud mass of red and white, are all now as plain as my old car.

We have just started a few days away at a holiday camp in Norfolk and I am hopeful that this will restore my otherwise positive attitude.

On arrival I became quickly aware that there were no St George's flags to be seen. I presume that the the holiday camp managers followed my wife's lead in hiding anything that might disappoint.

My hope now is that I might meet some French or Italian supporters: I will feel it is my duty to encourage them by offering the reminder that 'it's only a game'. We are fellow Europeans.

If I come across some Germans (not sure of it counts as Europe) I will feel the need to be magnanamous in defeat. Even if Lampard's goal had been allowed we still looked second rate compared with their skill.

For now I will pick up my vuvuzela and shout 'Come on Ghana!'

The instrument, that made every game sound like it was being played inside a hornets nest, was allowed because it is said to be a traditional instrument.

If we ever host the World Cup in this great nation we should employ our traditional
instruments and turn up at the stadium with a pair of spoons or a paper and comb. That would show 'em!

And if they complained about the noise we could remind them that 'it's only a game'.

England - Glee or Porgy & Bess

2010-06-23T01:26:00.001-07:00

Mrs M seems to be having withdrawal symptoms from the remote control. This object, once so regularly used to flick between various episodes of Next Top Model, has hardly left my side during the World Cup.

Realising her pain at such a loss I suggested she chose something good for us to watch whilst a less important match was on last night.

To my horror her remote controlling finger stopped pressing when we arrived at the latest American import known as Glee.

I had seen the odd trailer for the show so knew that it might be the type that I wouldn't fully appreciate. Nothing, however, could have prepared my for what I was about to witness.

For those who haven't seen it let me explain. It is set in a stateside high school and uses all the usual reference points to carry the story. Their are jocks and geeks and other groupings of American teens showing an unhealthy amount of disrespect for one another.

This series has a twist, however, in that it takes one such group and draws them together around their passion for performing arts, making them more Gleeks than Geeks.

This is where the show takes a turn for the worse as we are subjected to cheesy song after cheesy song set in a storyline that adds further helpings of savoury dairy products.

For this middle aged nothern male it represented sheer pain.

When I was at school the only musical we came near to performing was Porgy and Bess. That was because we had a substitute drama teacher for one term. She was full of enthusiasm and convinced that the boys in the class should experience the joy of singing in front of other people.

In truth, most of us were secretly drawn to the idea but we had to maintain our usual air of disdain for fear of being ridiculled.

Cast in the lead roll I was required to sing 'nobody knows the trouble I'm in' using my best deep south accent.

I didn't have such an accent and the teacher kept asking me to make it sound less like a football chant.

The following term our substitute teacher had disappeared along with my embarrasment at having to sing in front of the class.

Perhaps this is why I revile at the sight of these over enthusiastic American teenagers turning every mundane incident into a song.

I mentioned to Mrs M, in passing, that I preferred the football and she sang, with full musical actions, the main song from Glee as she went to make a brew.

'Don't stop believing'

'You might need that song when you watch the England match tomorrow' she said with a smile.

As long as I don't end up singing 'nobody knows the trouble I'm in' I replied hoping that my footballing dreams won't be shattered.

Cultured or Second Class

2010-05-26T15:18:00.001-07:00

I have been trying to get a bit of culture in my fairly ordinary life.
This sounds like it should be a relatively easy exercise if it weren’t for
the fact that I am a full northern male with, what was rather
discouragingly called, a secondary education.

Perhaps this title isn’t meant to imply a sub-standard academic
environment; however the address given by our deputy head master at our
opening assembly certainly did.

We sat before him as a group of gangly eleven and twelve year olds looking
for the kind of pedagogic inspiration we have become accustomed to in our
primary schools.

‘At an establishment down the road’ he began, referring to the local
grammar school. ‘They are being trained to be the cream of society’ he
continued as if imparting wisdom. ‘I want you to know, however, that you
are not second class’.

Until that assembly I had never considered that I was, being glad to
attend a school that played both football and rugby.

Now, as I approach fifty, I consider it is never too late to become
cultured. So as I waited for Mrs M to finish her nursing shift last week I
listened to Pavarotti’s performance of Nessun Dorma.

At the same time I surfed the Internet to find the words. This didn’t
completely prove fruitful, as I didn’t learn Italian at my secondary
school.

Fortunately the World Wide Web is not limited by my lack of education and
provided me with an English translation.

It turns out that Puccini was an old romantic and the song contains a very
moving lyric.

My computer didn’t stop there in trying to bring me culture. It seems that
those who know about such things are very passionate about naming their
favourite performer of this operatic masterpiece.

It seems that Britain’s Got Talent contestant Paul Potts doesn’t please
the opera going public of these fair isles.

When my bride finally arrived home I shared my newfound knowledge with her
and insisted that we did our own comparison by listening to several
singers
one after another.

Mrs M wasn’t immediately keen on the idea but soon came round and so we
listened, and we listened, and we listened.

After hearing nine tenors I had two conclusions; Firstly, Pavarotti was a
genius. His performance stood out above the rest. Secondly, my education
was, to some degree, secondary because our deputy head master never told
us
about the brilliance of Nessun Dorma during any of his assemblies.

Nothing to wear

2010-05-21T15:26:00.001-07:00

We are heading off to a conference this week and we have had our usual 'I haven't got anything to wear' conversation.

I don't want to sound unsympathetic but I approach the issue with a completely different perspective than my dear Mrs M.

We entered this dialogue immediately after an in-depth assessment of my wardrobe methodology. Apparently my bride doesn't feel that my system gives full honour to the hard work she has put into the ironing.

I foolishly asked her to explain her comments and so we stood in front of my proud collection of shirts and pants whilst my wife explained how I wasn't making good use of the available space.

I tried to seem interested but I couldn't help feeling that I was letting down all male members of the human race by spending too much time looking at cloth. I mistakenly said this thought out loud and was informed that I was as old fashioned as the corduroy jeans that have mocked me for the last five years. I bought them just after they changed the sizing system to make Medium the new Large.

Anyway, faster than a speeding knitting needle, my wife rearranged my clothes into an order that made her sigh with satisfaction.

'There you are!' she exclaimed.

In deed, there I was; my garments were now gathered in order of smartness and colour. My best shirts were neatly lines to the right and my comfortable, if slightly scruffy, T-shirts were waiting for me on the left.

Granted, it had a certain aesthetic appeal but I wasn't convinced that it offered me anything of any use.

Therein lies the difference between my bride and I; the question I ask when looking for clothes is 'are they fit for purpose?' Not so Mrs M who assures me that she looks at the bigger picture.

I realise at times like this that it is pointless arguing so I agreed to so order my wardrobe knowing too well that I would forget the next time I come to hang up the nicely ironed clothes.

I asked Mrs M why none of her many clothes would suit our upcoming conference. I didn't word it like this of course; that would imply a certain amount of sarcasm.

At this point she gave me lots of information that seemed, in her world at least, to sound rational. All I remember was that the black trousers weren't the right kind of black and that most of her outfits would be no use if the weather turned warmer.

After nodding my sympathetic agreement I put my shirts and trousers in the case; never once did I question their colour or suitability for warm weather.

Barbecues: Pretending to be Australian but without the weather.

2010-05-13T03:17:00.001-07:00

We have just watched a promotional advert for the football World Cup that is about to descend upon us. At the same as I cheered my wife gave a little sigh!

It seems that Mrs M is less than keen on the idea of four-weeks of solid football. I suggested that we could give the England matches a party feel by having a barbecue at the same time
Meat, beer, and football. Excellent!

My bride looked to the heavens, as if for help, and asked me whether I would prefer to watch most of the matches in the local pub.

'Really!' I said trying not to look too excited.

'I'd like you to enjoy it' she said presenting the idea as if she was being kind.

Twenty-nine years of married life tell me that this is not so and that my bride, is in fact, trying to make the house a soccer free zone during competition.

I asked her whether we could still have a few barbecues and she reminded me that she has never been fond of this outdoor eating experience.

Disappointed about her lack of enthusiasm for both football and barbecues I asked her what she found so off putting. Here are the thoughts of Mrs M.

Beef burgers - Why would they take perfectly good steak and mince it up only to put it back again as a pretend piece of steak unless they are trying to hide something.

Cooking outside - It's like pretending to be Australian but without the weather.

The World Cup - I can cope with football but not when they are trying to steal our summer.

Needless to say, I don't agree with my bride on any of the points she makes above.

Beef burgers are a perfectly convenient way of hiding the bits of meat that you wouldn't otherwise consider consuming. I would call this being thrifty.

Barbecues are a great way of us Brits expressing our eternal optimism in spite of consistent bad weather. Up and down the land you will see families huddled under makeshift gazebos whilst dad cremates pig meat protected from the rain by an umbrella. We wont be beaten.

As for the World Cup; it is a great way of practicing for the result of our general elections. For four years we have all followed our own favoured team; but now we form a coalition in order to support our national side. In the case of my two son-in-laws and me it will be a Spurs-Man pact.

In this new alliance there is no room for people who don't like beefburgers and all our cabinet meetings will be done, in the cold, around a barbecue.

Floating Voters, CS Lewis, and 'That Woman'

2010-05-06T06:16:00.001-07:00

Election day has arrived and, subject to decent weather, we should see a high turn-out. High in this context is a relative term as there has been a sharp decline in the numbers over recent years; the last election standing at a mere 61%.

I am sure that people have a variety of reason for how and why they vote. Here are just a few that seem likely:

Personalities. In this super fast, media obsessed world it appears that celebrity is a major motivating factor. Even so it can be difficult to find anything that resembles a personality.

Policies. I know people try to convince you that this really matters but you have to ask how many of the electorate have ever read the manifestos.

Ideology. Some have an idea of the kind of government they want and vote accordingly. Even if the current leader of their chosen party, or indeed their policies, seem less than attractive they will continue to offer electoral support.

I suppose which ever of the above becomes your main motivation it is at least better than being what the media call a 'floating voter'.

I overheard a conversation on the train last week where one man said to his female companion 'I will vote for whichever party knocks on my door first'. A simple approach if not exactly politically engaged.

Perhaps that is part of the problem; we think the whole matter of governing this incredible country is simple. And so like a crowd watching a football match we shout at the referee, sure that we could do better.

Our politicians don't help by trying to offer answers to the complex questions we face with the most simplistic of all responses; the sound-bite.

CS Lewis, the writer of The Lion The Witch & The Wardrobe, once said that reality is not simple. He went on to say that it is not neat but odd. This sounds like a terrible negative view but we human beings do seem to be not very neat and a little odd; probably a good description of British politics.

Just last week I was amazed to hear the response from Gillian Duffy at being labelled a bigot by the Prime Minister. Whilst everyone focussed on the nature of bigotry and the size of the gaff made by Brown, we seemed to miss the real cause of her upset.

'How dare he call me 'That woman'' she said.

Perhaps that is why there is such a low turn out to the election; none of us what to be known merely as 'that woman'.

Politicians of all parties need to remember the electorate may not be neat. We may be a little odd. But most of all we are real people

The Wrong Kind of Volcanic Ash

2010-04-23T14:28:00.001-07:00

The sun is out the sky is blue there is not a jet trail in the sky to spoil the view. I am not sure whether that would work as a song lyric but it does seem to represent our recent aviation related events.

The media is full of stories about people paying over the odds for alternative transport solutions. One of our friends has just paid over three-hundred pounds for a taxi journey from Holyhead to Bingley. If she was old enough for a bus pass she could have made the same trip for free. Albeit having to change buses seventeen times on route.

I know that we covered volcanoes during my school years but never once did anyone mention Iceland in this regard. And yet here we are with our air traffic on hold due to one of its eruptions and the threat of further disruption from a second brewing mountain.

The conspiracy theorists are having a field day and have so far preferred to believe that the real cause of the problem is either aliens or terrorists.

It never ceases to amaze me that these ideas are usually offered by people who would rather believe the incredible over the plausible.

I have a theory that the same person starts all conspiracy theories; which in itself makes it the ultimate conspiracy.

Does this overdose of volcanic ash mark the start of an Icelandic spring? We are used to having an Indian summer and a Canadian winter so this is just another one to add to our collection.

Whatever is happening you have to feel sorry for all those who are stranded away from home. Of course there are some more preferable places to be stranded. Perhaps if you are able to sip cocktails, near a sun soaked beach, whilst you wait for northern Europe to be ash free, you would be able to see the positive side of things.

So whilst Britain is sending navy ships to Spain to collect stranded tourists the irony of Iceland's Keflavik airport still being open for business is not lost on me. Perhaps ash is more of an export activity for our northern neighbour than a home-grown luxury.

As the planes start to roll off the runways over the next few days we are told there will be a two-week catch up in operations due to all the chaos caused. Ash! Who would have thought it?

The situation was not helped by a recent expert trying to explain why there had been such a problem; apparently it was the wrong type of volcanic ash. Experts! You gotta love 'em.

Fishing - An Expensive Sit Down

2010-04-20T23:26:00.001-07:00

The pleasant weather has brought the crowds out of their houses and on to towpaths of our local canal ways. In general the warmer climes bring out the best in people and we pass other travellers with a nod and a smile and an occasional 'thank you' to cyclist who offer us even the smallest of signal that they are steaming towards us from behind.

We like to think that we walk a good distance on these occasions but every now and then we see a sign that reminds us that the canal has a life outside of our experience of it.

Leeds is 19 miles in one direction whilst Liverpool is 120 miles the opposite way.

If it wasn't for such signs you could be blissfully unaware of the existence of either city as you walk through the Yorkshire countryside.

With renewed interest we started to look out for other signs on the towpath. Mrs M soon spotted one that informed us that we could fish for the day, if so desired, for the small price of £2.

I commented that this seemed a good price if fishing were your chosen hobby.

My bride did not agree and offered the comment 'it seems a lot of money just for having a sit down'.

I felt the need to defend the local anglers against such an onslaught even though I have not taken part since I was seventeen.

'Just having a sit down' I said somewhat exasperated, 'you could say a similar thing about most hobbies. Under such a system we might conclude:

The Cinema is merely £7.40 for sitting in a dark room.
Ten Pin bowling is just paying money to wait for your ball to be sent back.
And going swimming is just a more expensive way of having a bath.

Mrs M thought I was taking things too far but the point was made.

Knowing the value of your hobby is all about context. One man (or woman's) game of golf is another person's expensive long walk.

The same is true of canals; one person's three-mile stretch of inland water is another man's section of a Leeds to Liverpool highway. To be honest I am not sure if anyone travels the whole distance anymore but you get the point.

We travelled a little further in the general direction of Leeds, without any intention of visiting the city, and wondered if those engaged in fishing were getting value for money. After all if they weren't catching any fish it would make my wife's comment correct: two pound is a lot of money just for having a sit down!

One on a diet. All on a diet!

2010-04-08T07:47:00.001-07:00

Mrs M is due to speak at a conference in a few weeks time and amidst all the excitement of getting ready for the event she has decided that she needs to go on a diet in order to fit into her chosen outfit. The only problem is that when she says 'I' she means 'we'.

Somehow I have been dragged into things. I suggested that I didn't need to be included because I am not attending said conference, and instead shall be spending the day in the pub with some mates. None of whom will be even faintly interested in either my weight or my BMI.

This didn't wash with my bride and it seems I don't have a choice in the matter. She muttered something about needing my support and she wandered off to gorge on some lettuce. I tried to point out that when I support my favourite football team it doesn't involve actually kicking a ball but she wasn't convinced.

As part of this new regime we have increased the length and intensity of our evening stroll. Included in our workout is a brisk walk up the towpath of the Five Rise Locks.

Our normal routine includes spending our time chatting about a variety of subjects. This has, however, been somewhat restricted by the incline we now have to traverse.

We start off with a few words but it isn't long before silence descends apart from the panting noises we make as we try to breathe.

Because Mrs M is due to speak at her conference she takes our walks as opportunities to rehearse her chosen topic in front of her audience of one. This means that I do little of the talking until, that is, we reach the Five Rise Locks and my bride has to concentrate on the incline and breathing.

I have taken this as my time to get a few words in edge ways.

Not happy with this intrusion into her thought patterns my wife asked me during our walk today to wait until we arrived at the top.

I asked her why it should matter given that she is unable to offer any input into the conversation during this time. Her reasoning; she feels frustrated when she thinks of thinks to add and can't do so.

At this point I take the opportunity of highlighting the fact that whereas she isn't fit enough to converse I, in fact, am.

I suggest that this means I don't need to join her in her decision to go on a diet.

'But I need your support' she gasps.

'OK' I reply 'But don't ask me to kick a ball

Tweeters or Twirlies

2010-04-02T01:37:00.001-07:00

A few days ago I overheard one of my daughters calling us 'the wrinklies'; I immediately looked in the mirror and realised that the description was a fair one.

I offered some protestation, however, because it is not an accurate name for Mrs M. She may be three weeks older that me but she looks youthful. I know that I definitely married up.

Trying to offer support I commented that she didn't look a day over forty. She was quick to point out that we are at the age when such compliments don't work, mainly because forty still has the ring of age about it.

I shouldn't be too upset with being called a wrinkly as, much to their amusement, we have been using the title for our parents for a number of years; they must be thicker skinned than us.

I told my dad about the latest stage we have reached, and commented that, if we have arrived the moment where our laughter lines have determined our description, what should his generation now be called.

He informed me that his generation already had a new name. Apparently the local bus drivers in his locality have started carling them 'twirlies'.

I asked him why; suggesting that perhaps it referred to their dancing abilities and deftness of foot when getting on and off buses. But no!

He went on to describe how the name only applies to a five-minute period between twenty-five past nine and nine-thirty in the morning.

Evidently, as the drivers arrive at each bus stop during this period they are greeted to the sight of groups of pensioners all asking 'Are we too early to use our free bus passes?'

Hence the name Twirly. I guess it's a northern thing.

It does strike me as excellent that the elderly of Britain time their morning journey for maximum value.

Before the introduction of the free bus passes there was nothing to stop them setting off on their journeys as early as they desired.

I asked my dad why pensioners were so eager to travel during the early morning and he simple replied 'because we run out of sleep'.

'Added to this' he said 'is the fact that we need to get back for our tea'.

Apparently this is the age when you can no longer eat onions passed five o'clock without your whole sleep pattern being disturbed.

It struck me as ironic that whilst my wife and I are all too eager (tweagre) to use our social networking sites before nine-thirty our parents prefer to get out of the house and meet people for real.
Where we are tweeters whilst they are twirlies!

In Ballet They Don't Call It Skipping

2010-03-26T16:48:00.001-07:00

Last weekend we celebrated our twenty-ninth wedding anniversary. We decided long ago that the main stay of our celebratory presents for such events would not be surprises.

You might see this as a lack of romance but I am pretty sure the Mrs M was being pragmatic when she suggested we should adopt such a position. After all why risk valuable gift money being wasted on items that you might not want. In truth I have been known to buy things that seemed sensible to me but didn't fit with a female perspective on gift buying (we won't mention the sowing box of 1988).

For this year's anniversary my bride hinted well in advance that we had never been to see a ballet. She started this process well in advance during our trip to see Strictly Come Dancing. What started out as a reasonable wish to watch a tango from close up turned into a desire to spend a couple of hours viewing pirouettes.

With this said we set off for Sheffield to watch the Northern Ballet's rendition of Wuthering Heights.

The Lyceum theatre was superb and the cast were clearly were world class; it wasn't long before the whole audience were spellbound, including myself.

Mrs M lapped up every minute of the performance and during the interval she seemed eager to find out what I made of this dancing feast.

I pointed out that, although I appreciated the skill of both the performers and the orchestra, I wasn't fully sure what was happening in the story.

My bride tried to help by enquiring what was going through my mind as I watched; I think she felt that this might show that I understood at some deeper level.

'Well' I said, trying to be honest, 'most of the time I was thinking how much all of the male dancers looked like 'Alistair McGowen'.

She looked slightly disappointed as if hoping that somewhere inside this eighteen stone ex - rugby player was a cultured heart.

'In addition' I continued 'I was counting how many times they skipped'.

Apparently this wasn't the answer she wanted and she tried to tell me that in the ballet it isn't called skipping.

On the plus side I bought ice creams for us both; it seems that I didn't choose well and so I had to eat the one that Mrs M rejected and then go back for another of the one I had chosen for myself. Result!

We settled down to watch the second half and I tried to view it through enlightened eyes. At the end my bride again asked for my opinion. 'It would have been better if they had ended with the Kate Bush song' I offered.

The Back Seat Driving Panel

2010-03-19T05:20:00.001-07:00

As Mrs M and I approach our twenty-ninth wedding anniversary I feel it time for some reflection. Early on in our marriage we agreed to share responsibility for the various tasks involved in raising a family.

I was assigned the role of chief driver whenever we travelled even though, to be fair, my bride is a better driver than I am (although I would appreciate it if you didn't tell her I said so).

My responsibilities as family chauffer, however, don't come without their share of challenges.

It seems, and the female members of my family are in agreement on this, that I don't drive in a way that meets with their approval.

I either drive too slowly or I travel to fast. I either park too near or I park too far away.

And so it is that I have developed a thick skin when it comes to car related comments. I normally reply with 'when you are driving you can park wherever you want' or something similar.

Still our trips are accompanied by a set of regular encouraging remarks; 'watch that car', 'the lights are turning red', 'I am sure the other way would be quicker'.

In recent months a new phrase has been added largely due the fact that my advancing years seems to have brought a small amount of hearing loss. The phrase is in fact just a single word; 'indicator'.

My problem is not helped by the fact that the steering wheel seems to be inconveniently positioned to obscure the indicator light from view.

Last week we have had some of our dearest friends over for a few days. It was good to catch up and we spent many happy hours putting the world to rights safe in the knowledge that we had no responsibility for having to put our ideas into operation.

During our trips out I reverted to type and took up my usual position behind the wheel. Mrs M offered her help by reminding me that the colour red meant stop. Daughter number two considerately added some advice about the correct use of bus lanes.

Eventually, encouraged by my wife and daughters wise words, our female friend joined the panel of driving experts. She seemed to think that I might have forgotten how to use round-a-bouts.

I looked across at her husband for support and he raised his eyes in acknowledgement of my dilemma. We said nothing but I was comforted by the fact that he understood.

When we arrived at our destination he offered me the greatest sign of solidarity by turning up the volume on the CD player in order to drown out the help offered by the back seat panel.

Faded Jeans

2010-03-13T12:32:00.000-08:00

For several months my wife and daughters have been expressing the view that I am in desperate need of a style makeover. The sight of me once again turning up for an event in T-shirt and denim must have been too much for them.

Anyway after an overdose of Trinny and Susannah terrorising fashion victims on TV, the Molineaux females decided to take me on a serious shopping expedition. After driving for what felt like several lunch times we arrived at the temple to mammon and found refuge in an outlet where the beverages end in a vowel and cost more than my last pair of jeans.

Suitably energized by cappuccinos and skinny lattes we set off in search of fabric designed for slimmer waistlines than mine.

I chose what appeared to be acceptable items for a man of my age and headed for the unisex changing rooms to see if any of them would make me look thinner; knowing only too well that the mirrors provided are designed to flatter.

I was stopped on my journey by daughter number one wishing to inspect my find. One by one she held each item of clothing up to the other members of our party and they all joined in the laughter.

After enjoying themselves at my expense they lead me away to another section of the store to be shown the type of trousers that I apparently ‘really liked’.

I muttered and moaned but still found myself trying them on and then coming out of the closet (in the old sense of the phrase), to do my own version of a fashion show. After telling me that I looked fantastic and that they made me look years younger they were kind enough to ask me what I thought of them.

‘Call me old fashioned’, I said ‘But I like the notion that I can FADE my own denim ‘after’ I have bought the jeans’. They looked at me as if my two score years and seven had afforded me no right to an opinion.

Not to be defeated the girls encouraged, or should that be harangued, me to try on the second pair of their selection. I emerged this time with several areas of flesh showing as the jeans in question were ripped in at least three places and both the pockets and the hems were frayed making them look like the pair that I had thrown away just two weeks earlier.

‘It is the fashion’, said my youngest ‘Everybody is wearing them’.
I tried once again to voice my objections.

‘Call me old fashioned’, I said ‘But I like the notion that I can RIP my own denim ‘after’ I have bought the jeans’.

This time my wife agreed with my complaint; pointing out to the girls that they were trying too hard to make me look younger.

We left the store without making a purchase only to enter another, seemingly identical, shop. It seemed to me that, even though I was the central figure of the day, I wasn’t really needed.

I made my escape and found a gadget store; joining all the other husbands who I presume had run away from similar shopping treats, I imagined owning a remote control spitfire and a walkie talkie watch.

My mobile phone rang and interrupted my enjoyment of a plasma ball; it was my wife complaining that I wasn’t putting as much effort in the day as they were.

When I arrived at the department store the females were loaded up with enough clothes to kit out an army.

You might think that I would have been daunted by this sight but I had a cunning plan; I was ready to agree to eight out of the first ten items I tried on whatever they looked like. It seemed the path of least resistance and would speed our journey to lunch.

It is for this reason that I sit here writing wearing brand new faded and a pink T-shirt. You might think that I am defeated but I take comfort in the fact that I refused to by the ‘man bag’ that they insisted were all the rage these days.

Hers, Mine or Ours

2010-03-04T23:19:00.001-08:00

During our twenty-nine years of marriage I have noticed that my wife likes to claim ownership of certain things whilst rejecting others.

Whilst not wanting to step into the murky waters of sexism, I am assured by many of my male friends that she is not alone in this regard.

Just a few days ago she used the word 'my' when describing 'our' bedroom.

Granted there have been a number of nights over the last three decades when I have been banished to the sofa for some snoring related offence. Even so, I am sure that I should have equal share in its occupancy.

Now I think about it my presence in our bedroom is limited to a small proportion of it. I have just worked out that with the 18 inches square of my bedside cabinet and the hook behind the door I can only claim around four percent of the room.

Once our youngest daughter left for university my bride suggested I store my clothes in her old wardrobe; to be honest it is useful having my clothes available when I have to leave early for work. Fortunately I still have occupancy of an eighteen strip of our king size bed.

As far as the bathroom is concerned I do have half a shelf in the cabinet but where I do have the most space is on the shelf that contains reading materials. And, although my wife likes to purge the contents every now and then, I have a favourite sports book, a comedian's biography, and an electronics catalogue.

Even with this attempted take over bid Mrs M still calls it her bathroom. I need to work harder.

Over the years I have come to terms with my dessert being known as 'ours' when we are at a restaurant but this reshaping of our world is a little too much.

As I type I am reminded that my bride has made claim to two thirds of our sofa as she reclines next to me; she is trying to convince me that I can type and tickle her feet at the same time.

When I ask Mrs M why she feels the need to call so many things hers rather than ours she responds she tells me that it is a trade off. She gets the pretty things and I get the functional items. Apparently, because I love to cook I have ownership of two cupboards in the kitchen.

At this point she announce to me 'From now on you shall be known as lord of the pans'. I think I deserve more than mockery.

I responded by saying that I was just off to the pub to spend some money from 'my' joint bank account.

Feeling ill but still keeps her dignity

2010-02-26T01:22:00.001-08:00

Mrs M and I have been a little unwell over the last two weeks. It seems that having avoided our entire coughing and sneezing family members during the Christmas period, we have caught the tail end of some bug trying its best to make us miserable just before spring arrives.

It is unusual for my wife to feel ill as, being a nurse, she seems to have built up a healthy amount of resistance to common bugs over the years. We have now, however, developed the same symptoms and as a result we have stereo sickness.

I don't want to appear selfish but being under the weather at the same time as your partner only adds to the complications; I now have to share the attention and sympathy with another person.

Our malady started with a slight sore throat and a cough that tended to sound like one of those false noises trying to convince others that we were not well. For a while it seemed that we would perform this drama in sync with each other.

That is where the similarity ends. Mrs M is a good patient and suffers in relative silence. I employ all my amateur dramatic skills to ensure that everyone knows the pain I am going through.

In a similar way I ensure that the scene is complete by looking as ill as I feel; Unshaven chin and sticky up hair until I become Stig of the Dump. My wife, however, still seems to maintain her natural amount of grace even through the most trying of circumstances.

Even after one rather painful and heavy session of nausea Mrs M, almost by instinct, picked up a brush as she returned to bed and tidied her hair. Even when we had to visit the emergency doctor in the middle of the night a couple of nights ago she still managed to look stylish and presentable whilst at the same time feeling ill and feverish.

Determined to see the positive side my bride took the opportunity of weighing herself after about three days of not eating exclaiming 'there must be some upside to being ill'.

She has obviously been in some pain and thus unable to function normally, yet she is still unwilling to let go of all the marks of dignity.

Not so I; other than the odd gargle with mouthwash my usual routines have been put on hold until I get back to wanting bacon again. (A sure sign of health in my book)

I mentioned the idea of bacon to Mrs M and she didn't seem too impressed. She ran off to brush her hair again.

One roast potato! I ask you.

2010-02-17T15:35:00.001-08:00

Our dear friends Mel and Sheila took us out for the day to enjoy a country drive and some honest pub grub.

The food was excellent and, to my liking, came in ample measure.

I had started to feel that, in inverse proportion to my waistline, food size had reduced over the last few years.

But here in this Yorkshire country pub the landlady was bucking the trend.

The hotel we visited a few weeks earlier was the opposite end of the spectrum; I was served a small piece of lamb laying on a miniscule amount of mash. The plate also contained two baby carrots and only one, yes one, roast potato.

My wife tried to subdue my inner outrage at such injustice by saying it was the way that the top chefs did it these days.

Then it struck me: what an incredible marketing campaign these resteratuers have waged recently. What a master stroke by these master chefs.

They have convinced the british public that fine dining is when you pay more money for less food.

Never has such economic brilliance been seen since the invention of the mini skirt.

Well this proud northerner has seen through their plan and intends to revolt by ordering a side dish of chips with every meal I have in one of these psuedo-chic establisments.

In addition to this I shall demand proper gravy when they try to offer my a smudge of, what the menus describe as, jus.

Gordon Ramsey might like to tell us that his 'F' word stands for food but we now know it means the customer is a Fool.

It is time for a revolution: up and down the country citezans no longer need to stifle an exclamation of 'is that it?' when offered a large plate with a solitary island of food in the middle.

One roast potato! I ask you.

Perhaps the best response when faced with such paucity would be to say 'if I had wanted a starter I would have ordered one'.

If the menu says that your meat comes on a bed of mash ask them for a king size mattress.

Human Bed Warmers Wanted For Hotel

2010-02-10T10:57:00.001-08:00

When I was a kid we thought it was the height of extravagance to be offered a melon starter whilst on holiday at an average B&B in Prestatyn. Nowadays we even have the option of a pre-main course before our breakfast. During our recent hotel stay we had the choice of five different types of fruit before we hit the cereal bar. This was followed by a full English breakfast and a rack of toast and jam.

Back in the sixties the idea of having an en-suite toilet or a TV in your room would not have even entered our heads but now it seems to be the minimum standard; even the most budget of hotels offer tea & coffee making facilities, trouser press, and a telephone.

Well, hot on the heels of the turn down service and the chocolate on your pillow comes the Human Hot Water Bottle. That's right! Hotel chain Holiday Inn are trailing a new scheme to offer guest the option to have their bed warmed by a staff member before retiring for the evening.

Before your brain goes in to overdrive let me tell you that the employee first dons a full fleece bed suit before starting the warming process, and leaves the room before you get into bed. That's alright then!

Back in the years of my childhood you were lucky to be offered an extra blanket to stave off the nighttime chills. On the plus side it was the age of the nylon bed sheet, an invention that offered a full electrical storm of static every time you moved an arm.

The thought that humans have now evolved to need other people to warm their beds for them before they can rest seems somewhat ridiculous.

What next? Bedtime stories for the weary traveller, someone to cut your food up before your eat it, or perhaps a shoelace tying service. Bed warming seems to just a step to far.

Although I am not sure that I would want someone warming up my bed before I go to sleep it does strike me that it would be an incredible job to have. I wonder what the qualifications are.

You would imagine there to be a minimum height for the job otherwise the bed wouldn't get fully warmed. Even though I am probably big enough to meet the standard I am far too good at sleeping to be of any real use. Mrs M tells me that as soon as my head hits the pillow I start to snore in several octaves. A musical human hot water bottle; now there's a thought.

How big does your suitcase need to be for a two night stay?

2010-01-27T11:55:00.001-08:00

Our recent trip across the Pennines was an enjoyable affair; not least because we stayed for two nights in a decent hotel.

A quick slice of net surfing, a seemingly out of date special offer code, and a cheeky telephone conversation with a person on reception and we managed to get a top suite in a good hotel for a basic price. I even wangled a free meal in the restaurant on the evening of our first night.

The weekend, in essence, belonged to Mrs M due to the Strictly Come Dancing tickets given to her by our daughters for Christmas.

This meant I felt committed to doing this her way; shopping for clothes, early morning swimming, and the largest suitcase available.

The fact that we were away for only two nights had no bearing on the number of clothes my bride decided to take. I would repeat the phrase 'only two nights' several times during the next 72 hours.

I was allowed a small corner of the available space but figured that I only needed one pair of trousers and three shirts to make the stay work. It's great being a fella.

I loaded the car with suitcase and laptop foolishly thinking my job was complete. I couldn't have been more wrong.

When I returned from the car my wife had assembled the following items that could not be fitted into the suitcase; make-up bag, hairdryer and straighteners, a six-pack of yoghurts, various toiletries, a handbag, and two extra pillows. (Both of these are for Mrs M - she says she uses them to cover her ears so that she cannot hear me snoring)

In addition to this, and I kid you not, my wife had included seven pairs of shoes (not including those that she was wearing).

I shoehorned the rest of these items into our tightly packed vehicle and we set off towards black-pudding country.

When we arrived at the hotel we signed in without taking our cases to reception; I didn't want them to think that we intended moving in for good.

Having unpacked and freshened up we headed out towards one of the area's biggest shopping centres and prepared for Mrs M to spend some Christmas money.

I got over the disappointment of not eating out my favourite Portuguese restaurant knowing that we had our table booked in the hotel for later that evening.

I took every opportunity of taking a seat having jarred my back lifting the oversized suitcase and wondered at the irony of the fact that the shopping expedition meant that my bride bought enough clothes not to have to wearing any of the items we brought. A fact that seemed completely lost on Mrs M.

A Lack Lustre Audience for a High Quality Strictly Come Dancing

2010-01-21T09:01:00.000-08:00

Having just returned from the live tour of Strictly Come Dancing, Mrs M and I are all danced out.

We were only audience members but it is the type of show that requires maximum foot tapping.

The tickets had been a gift from our girls and what an excellent show it was; including some of our favourite stars from the TV series.

Throughout the night we booed Craig, laughed at Bruno, respected head judge Len, and cheered at the return of Arlene. The crowd seemed in one voice in expressing their disapproval at the BBC's decision to axe her from the recent series in favour of someone who had ten minutes of dance experience.

Sequins, lights, live music, dance, and the occasional burst of flames: what a night!

There were a couple of things that caught my attention that I feel are worthy of note.

Firstly, there was no Bruce. I shouldn't be too disappointed because it's not as if he is very funny anymore. But having watched him since the late sixties saying it was 'nice to see you' I wanted to be able to say it back to him in a live setting. The Queen might not like him enough to knight him but I have a soft spot for the Mighty Atom. I can't even ask Jim to Fix it.

Secondly, it was obvious from the reaction of the 7000 strong crowd that people had forgotten how to be an audience.

My wife and I felt almost alone as we applauded and cheered in response to the energy and expertise on show. Yet there were whole groups of people who just sat and watched as if they were at home viewing it on the telly.

I almost expected one of them to press pause on a remote control before going off to put the kettle on.

It was strange given both the price of the tickets and the nature of the show that there wasn't more engagement from them. One had to presume that this was the hardcore Strictly fan; The type of fan that knows every detail of Claudua Winkleman's hair and make-up.

Can it be that, as a nation, we have lost the art of being an audience?

It has suddenly occurred to me that perhaps it is our family that is odd in this respect. We regularly engage with the TV programme; taking time to applaud the best dances and respond to the cruel comments offered by the judges. It therefore seemed easy for us to continue such behaviour for the live show.

As for much of the rest of the audience it wasn't nice to see them; to see them it wasn't nice!

Chocolate in Context

2010-01-08T09:27:00.001-08:00

As we all know Christmas has interrupted our normally healthy life style. There is no surer sign that the sugar overdose line has been crossed than when you finally eat the strawberry flavoured item from the chocolate selection, even though you hate the taste.

It's like the ultimate expression of over indulgence. Or so I thought until a few days ago.

We had been to one of our usual supermarkets; we have a few to choose from and I have loyalty cards with all of them. I know that it calls in to question how much fidelity I have but it is just a fact of life.

We were looking at the fruit and vegetable selection trying get excited about things that were not covered in chocolate when Mrs M declared that she was too cold to remain and wandered off to wander down warmer isles.

It was a little cool but given the snow outside the in-store temperature seemed a small price to pay in order to find a good selection of our five a day.

By the time I caught up with my bride I found her peering into the refrigerated section retrieving a couple of our favourite chocolate mousse desserts.

'I thought you were bothered about the cold' I asked

'Yes' replied my bride, 'but the things on offer here are a lot more interesting.

She had a point; it's amazing how context can change your point of view.

We took the mousse desserts home and set down for a chocolaty after dinner treat. After as couple of spoonfuls I looked at my bride and asked if she was enjoying the experience. They just didn't taste as good as I had remembered.

We wondered whether the manufacturers had changed the ingredients during the last few weeks. Then it occurred to me: we usually ate these delicious desserts as a weekend reward after days of eating yoghurts.

Yet recently we had so overdosed on chocolate during the Christmas period that they had no sparkle; nothing that made it stand out.

This, then, became the ultimate sign that we had overdone things during the festivities; even our usual delicacies were appearing bland to our exhausted pallets.

Now we head towards the land of sugar free produce and exercise machines hoping that one day we will fit back into our usual clothes without that pinching feeling.

My personal goal is to get back to the stage where my favourite chocolate mousse once again tastes special and I manage to resist the strawberry flavoured sweet.

Women's Shoes: The Real Cause of the Country Coming to a stand still in the snow

2010-01-03T00:36:00.001-08:00

The recent snow has lead me to one conclusion. We don't do bad weather very well. What is the cause of such havoc at the slightest sight of falling white stuff.

I have concluded, from direct experience, that the reason for the above calcification is the state of women's shoes.

I know I might be I danger of creating a caricature but I have good reason for my diagnosis.

A recent shopping trip found me walking in the middle of a couple of female family members whilst trying to hold them upright in the face of mounting pressure.

Why is it, I would wondered, that my shoes offer me assistance in walking on the snow but my wife and daughter's refuse to help.

When we arrived in town we stopped, as we often do, for refreshment; it seems that a 5 mile car journey makes Mrs M feel like she is 'spitting feathers'.

I took the opportunity to look at the soles on the boots worn by my two companions and found that they had no grip available; merely a smooth surface of either plastic or leather.

It was as if the manufacturers had specifically designed them to slip in snowy conditions. It is difficult to imagine that it is cost related; the girls have always paid more for their footwear than I. And yet all of my shoes have a reasonable amount of available grip.

We continued our shopping expedition (an apt word if ever there was one); I couldn't help feeling like I was escorting Todd Carty around the ice rink. Every few steps there would be a high pitch yelp and a strong tug on my arm by one female or the other.

So could it be, as I suspect, that the cause of our recent stand still was women's shoes. If so then we are likely to be doomed ever time there is even the hint of a snow drift. My recent research, done whilst waiting for Mrs M and offspring to return from the changing room, convinced me that functionality has little place in the design of female footwear.

The only hint I could find of anything approaching practicality were a pair of slip on flat slippers that could fold up and fit in a handbag. Apparently they were for the journey to and from an event because, of course, party shoes are far too uncomfortable to travel in.

Whilst I admire the ingenuity of the product on offer I have to conclude that women's shoes are not intended to be functional. If there is to be snow in 2010 then you know what to blame when the whole country grinds to a halt!

Wiseman and Women

2009-12-24T04:26:00.001-08:00

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

2009-12-18T12:05:00.001-08:00

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

2009-12-16T00:45:00.001-08:00

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

2009-12-04T03:42:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-24T15:18:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-18T12:25:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-10T15:09:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-05T15:52:00.001-08:00

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?

2009-10-27T03:20:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-19T01:04:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-12T12:45:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-09T14:09:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-07T10:44:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-03T09:20:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-25T09:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-18T09:17:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-11T09:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-04T09:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-29T09:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-30T09:19:00.002-07:00

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

2009-01-16T10:05:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-15T10:15:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-14T10:04:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-13T09:53:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-12T10:01:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-11T09:30:00.000-08:00

Weather

2009-01-10T09:27:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-09T09:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-08T08:35:00.000-08:00

Monday Blues

2009-01-07T08:57:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-06T08:59:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-05T08:50:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-04T10:19:00.000-08:00

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.

Strictly

2009-01-03T08:54:00.000-08:00

Da da da da da da da, da da da da da!

Yes, you’ve guessed it, we have been watching Strictly Come Dancing over the last few weeks and have been captivated by the drama of it all.

Mrs M usually comments on the frocks and frills whilst I, being a fully qualified DD (Dancing Dad), give my expert opinion of the fleckles and heal leads. It is amazing what three months of lessons at the Renee Buckley School of Dance can do when you are 8 years old.

To be honest I know nothing but I can talk a good talk when faced with daughters who disagree with me about who should be voted off.

I was sad to see the end of John Sargeant; not for choreographic reason but democratic ones. It was great to see the British public showing the BBC who is boss. They blame us when we don’t vote (phone in now to save your favourite) and then they blame us when we do (it’s ridiculous that the worst dancer is still in)!

I haven’t yet admitted to my bride and daughters that I have been calling in for John every week without them knowing; please don’t tell her

I think the main reasons I love the show is that it is full of true stars; unlike some of the programs with the word ‘Celebrity’ in the title.

I refer not to the actors, singers, and sports stars who attempt to trust their stuff but to the professional dancers who train the novices each week and encourage them to move out of their comfort zones.

These true dance stars have trained for years without any promise of either fame or fortune in their future. Then along comes an entertainment show that brings their unique skills into our homes every week (or every day for Mrs M).

Their dedication was fuelled by a love for dance rather than seeking celebrity status and yet they have found fame and hopefully a decent level of fortune.

After the panel of judges discuss how well the ‘famous’ contestants have done at tripping the light fantastic, the professionals treat us to an expert display of how the dances should be done.

The quality is only interrupted by Bruce Forsyth’s jokes; I don’t know who writes them for him but I wouldn’t count them as a friend if I were Brucie.

Saying all that I am still surprised that he hasn’t been made a knight of the realm by now; if only for his services to hair weaves and catch phrases. You have to admire his reference to the press calling him doddery.

Whether you watch it for the dresses, the jokes, or the judge’s comments it has to be the skill of the expert dancers that keeps us coming back for more.

If only I had carried on dancing with Renee Buckley I could have been with them performing every Saturday night. In my dreams……..

Christmas Event

2008-12-30T08:31:00.000-08:00

All in all it has been a good Christmas break. Granted I have been suffering from a rather ruthless sore throat but I have limited its effect by the taking of a couple drinks for medicinal purposes.

Opening the presents was fun and everyone seemed to get the type of things that made them happy. Even though I had dropped a few hints there were a few of things I wanted that didn’t appear.

Leading up to each Christmas the girls will ask what presents would I like and I answer the same every year; a bottle of port, a guitar magazine, and some chocolate brazils.

Every year without fail they reply ‘They are not real presents!’

I try to remind them that these are the things that will make me happy but it is as if I am asking for the impossible.

This year I received several guitar related items and a full box set of the Red Dwarf television series. Then, just when I was thinking that I would have to buy my own favourite things they handed me three extra presents; a bottle of port, a guitar magazine, and some chocolate brazils.

All in all a good result!

In the exciting mix of gifts we also had the customary tins of chocolates. When I was a kid the conversation leading up to Christmas was always should we buy Quality Street or Roses; the presumption being we would only have one tin for the holiday period.

As it was this year we had six different tins on offer; showing quite clearly how complicated life has become.

Back in the days of my youth we would be faced with a choice between The Morecambe & Wise Show and a James Bond movie (no real choice there).

Now we have 760 channels and still we cant find anything worth watching.

In the seventies we had to decide between only two types of lettuce (Cos and Iceberg) and a couple of kinds of tomato (Normal and Beef).

Now we have many variations of both including Lolo Bionda and On the Vine. And don’t get me started about spring onions being called salad onions.

With so much choice available to us it is a wonder that we get anything done at all in the lead up to Christmas.

I tend like things to be relatively simple; hence only asking for a few pleasures as presents.

We always tend to buy too much stuff as it is and this includes the Christmas meal; I keep reminding the family it is pretty much just a Sunday Dinner with a few extra treats.

My plan worked and we had just about everything we needed for a special family occasion.

After the openings of the gifts we consumed our food and settled down to flick through the 760 channels and compare notes on the chocolate varieties available to us.

It was the only time we argued over the holidays; maybe too much choice is not always a good thing.

Christmas Cards

2008-12-30T08:22:00.000-08:00

Leading up to the festive season my wife and I assume our usual roles and complete our assigned tasks.

I make sure the decorative lights work and my bride ensured that all the Christmas cards are written.

Mrs M was set on buying cards that supported one of our favourite charities so we spent what felt like a short lifetime selecting the most suitable design.

For some reason my wife thought it was good sport to ask for my opinion; perhaps only to make me feel included.

It is at this point that I feel the need to add a confession; we are one of those families that send out a yearly newsletter with our cards. Sorry if you are one of those people who find such things annoying but it is what we do.

Leading up to the event I often have my own doubts about the whole practice too, especially when we have to think of interesting things to say about ourselves. I am soon convinced that our way of working is correct when we start to receive incoming mail.

It is always nice to receive but there are some people who seem to make very little effort at all. We get a card every year from someone called George and neither of us can figure out who this person is.

He doesn’t help much because he never puts either a surname or a return address. Picture the scene; we are sat in Yorkshire wondering who on earth he is and he is sat in…… wherever he lives…….. trying to come to terms with the fact that the Molineaux family ignore him every year even though he goes to the trouble of sending a card.

In light of this, enclosing a newsletter seems perfectly reasonable.

This brings me to people’s choice of cards to mark this special occasion. I have just had a look through the collection we have on our mantle piece and noticed that they do little to give us any clue what the event is about.

If you travelled down from another planet and tried to get any sense of meaning by just looking at the cards you would presume that Christmas was the most odd form of celebration.

Firstly you would think that every year at this time the fields were filled with snow when in truth it has been years since this happened except in Hollywood films.

Secondly, you would reasonably conclude that it was perhaps the birthday of some bearded fat guy wearing a red suit.

Thirdly, that it is meant to be a time of peace when ironically it tends to be the noisiest of times.
Perhaps in our own way we are trying to redress the balance by sending a newsletter to the ones we love.

Whether it is about snow or Santa or peace you will have to decide for yourself. It might have helped if someone had sent us a Good News letter……………or perhaps someone did!

Conspiracy Theory

2008-02-09T00:23:00.000-08:00

I have been wondering recently about how we end up with so many conspiracy theories in the world. Who starts them all?

There was a time when I would happily dismiss them out of hand but I have felt the need to suddenly develop one of my own. It concerns the growing problem of my missing loose change.

Not so long ago I wouldn’t have even considered copper-coloured coins as real money. As always I would have ended the day with my usual rituals which included emptying the contents of my trouser pockets into a container next to my bed; usually dropping several one-pence pieces and annoying my wife.

This shrapnel would sit there day after day and serve as testament to the fact that, even though we have four daughters, we can never truly say that we have NO money.

Recently, however, the coinage has shown signs of reduction to the point that I often have to refill the tin each night with a new offering. Thus begins my conspiracy theory. These ideas usually follow a similar patter of strange logic that I will attempt to stick with.

Firstly, they try to get general agreement that something is wrong with a given subject. In this regard I have spoken to other dads and they all concur that loose change is an issue in their houses too. Ah ha!

Secondly, the theorists ridicule any other rational reason given for whatever it is that troubles them. To meet with this requirement I have openly mocked my wife’s suggestions that the problem lies with either inflation or that my lack of sharpness on the memory front is to blame. She actually had the nerve to suggest that I might have mislaid my money. Honestly!

Thirdly, the conspiracy mongers blame something that most people have limited knowledge of. This brings me to the main focus of my conspiracy theory. I happened through the entrance of our local supermarket last week and noticed a machine that I hadn’t seen before. It had a screen on which a large £ sign was displayed with numbers counting upward. Stood near to the hole at the front of the equipment, two teenagers were emptying coins from a plastic carrier bag. As it nosily digested the money it stopped counting at £12.33 and the youngsters walked away with a slip of paper.

Intrigued I went in for a closer look and saw that this was a machine dedicated to counting loose change and converting it into a voucher that could be spent in the store.

And so here, ladies and gentlemen, is my conspiracy theory: Inflation, Pa! Memory Loss; Not a chance! Our kids are taking our hard earned copper coins and turning them into something they can actually spend at a supermarket without the cashier being annoyed with them.

Let us proceed further; the next stage in the theorist’s method is to get others on board with the idea. I have so far managed to get three other dads to agree to be present at our inaugural meeting. True, I had to promise two of them that we would meet in a pub whilst the other one thinks he is joining a darts team. Other than that they are all fully committed to the cause.

The final stage of the process is to link your theory to all other suggested conspiracies by raising issues that can’t be fully answered and therefore I have a few questions: Was any loose change found on the grassy knoll in Dallas in 1963? Were any teenagers spotted carrying plastic bags full of coins in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947? Has any research been done on the correlation between UFO sightings and missing two pence pieces? The mystery is out there.

I mentioned all of this to my wife and she gave me one of her ‘Why did I marry him’ looks before trying to re-focus on my suggested memory loss.

Before I invest too much time into this whole area I do have one more thought; What if all the conspiracy theories are made up by the same people and thereby in themselves a conspiracy. It’s just a theory.

2008-01-09T12:04:00.000-08:00

At school I had my self-esteem dented, along with countless others, by being less than average at a number of sports. Even though most teachers would try to offer encouragement by reminding us that it was the 'taking part' that mattered, the more influential voices were of course other kids.

The number of times during cricket practice I heard the phrase 'you are a waste of space Molineaux'.

Fortunately, I was six foot tall and 12 stone as I entered the first year of high school and therefore rugby became my saving grace. I managed to use my size to my advantage until all the other boys caught up with my growing pattern during our fourth year.

I am glad to say that since leaving education no one has ever accused me of being a waste of space; not to my face anyway.

All of this was brought back to mind when my youngest daughter made a comment about my inability to produce sentences that they can understand whilst texting on my mobile phone.

It was during this conversation about all things communicative that daughter number four said that I was 'a waste of credit'. She insisted that she wasn’t commenting on my worth as a father or indeed a human being; just a reflection about my lack of ability with phone technology.

Needless to say the comment brought back all those years of shame; scoring an own goal at football, running out the star player during a cricket match, tripping up just before the tape in the 400 meters, nearly taking someone’s eye out in a game of squash (I will expand on this further at a later date). Not an all together impressive record. If it wasn’t for the rugby I would have no trophies at all.

As things go being a waste of credit does not seem to be too bad a deal after all there are far harsher ways of judging people. She could have told me that I was a waste of chocolate because I tend to eat far too quickly to really enjoy the taste. Or perhaps a waste of movies owing to my inability to sit through a film without complaining about how loud the music is compared to the dialogue (am I the only one to notice). Maybe she could have accused me of being a waste of music because I tend to dance like a slightly disappointed gorilla.

At school being a waste of space at sport was guaranteed to convey the complete frustration one lad would have with a team member. But it was one comment in particular that provoked the keenest reaction in me. Just before a match I overheard a teacher comment on my abilities on the rugby field. I had hoped that since the previous season I had captained the side to the schools first ever trophy that I was about to over hear some praise. Unfortunately, the comment went along the lines of ‘Molineaux! He is just big, that’s all. He doesn’t even use his strength well.’

I went out onto the field determined to prove him wrong and subsequently got sent off for hitting one of the opposition for standing near me or looking stupid or some other minor offence. Proving that I did know how to use my strength but perhaps not my mind.

As I walked to the touch line I could hear one of my fellow team members reminding me that even in rugby I could occasionally be ‘a waste of space’.

On my way towards the changing rooms I attempted to take one of the pieces of citrus fruit customarily given at half time. ‘Leave it Molineaux’ said our sports teacher ‘You are a waste of orange too’. Not meaning to mention mobile phone network providers, I wonder if he was predicting that I would one day be a ‘waste of credit’.

New Years Resolution

2007-12-30T14:53:00.000-08:00

Following the ceremonial eating of the last Christmas chocolate and the subsequent guilt, and its associated lack of self worth, I have decided to make a New Year’s resolution.

My family will, of course, place bets on how many days (or hours) my resolve will last but I will, in true 'only man in the house style', ignore them and press on.

I can’t decide whether to go for a positive resolution or a negative one because, as everyone knows, they fall into two groups. I could choose to word my new purposefulness as either ‘I will stop eating bad food’ or ‘I will start eating good food’.

Herein lies the problem; the jury is still out on what can be labelled as good or bad food. If I listen to the scientists I find that, although apples can be included as part of my 5-a-day fruit and veg requirement, the acid can also have a detrimental effect on my gums. Alternatively I could take notice of the health pages in the gossip magazines that I DON’T read for 5 minutes every morning before I leave the house. Actually, I read them just to make sure that my daughters are not being fed a distorted view of the world. The advice is generally woven around the idea that everything should be done in balance but, following an inner ear problem that was mistreated when I was a child, this too is a problem.

Perhaps the new-age multiple-choice gurus can offer an answer to my plight. They normally start by getting you to measure your current state by monitoring the condition of some random part of your body. ‘Know your knees, know yourself’ they tend to exclaim, whilst provided a handy map of the surface area of your patella in order that you might discover whether your mother ate mascarpone cheese during the fourth month of carrying you in her womb. They will then make an absolute statement about how this has lead to your inability to control your weight, without producing a scrap of evidence for such a claim. Pointing out that most people’s knees make an audible crack when they try to move to a standing position they will drive their persuasion home and you will find that you are unable resist.

So what, in the name of all that is chocolate, am I suppose to do if I cant even be sure which foods are good and which are bad.

The truth is that I am no more interested in eating less than I am in phoning in to answer one of those day time questions that appear just before the adverts on day time television. You know the type; ‘Name a Christmas character beginning with S who wears red and has a long white beard?’ Is it:

a) Santa, b) Satin or C) Santana

Even if I do try to win I won’t be sure that the producers haven’t switched off the phone lines before my entry is logged yet still charge me for the call. I wonder if the same things happened when you entered by post card; there might be sacks hidden around the country. This could be why I didn’t receive my Blue Peter badge in 1968 when I entered a painting competition.

My need to start a New Year’s Resolution is driven by two things: I have eaten so much chocolate I couldn't face anymore and, I have spent so much on food that I have no more money left even if I wanted to continue to over indulge. I need to remember for next year that Christmas lunch is just Sunday Dinner with party hats; that way I might not buy as much.

So after I have read the magazines articles on growing your own vegetables and seen the ‘Too fat to open your eyelids’ edition of Tricia, I check the condition of my knees and fall asleep on the sofa. With a chocolate smudge on my new white shirt and sweet wrappers resting on the ridge of my stomach I dream of successfully making and keeping a New Year’s resolution.

My Age in World Cups

2007-12-26T04:05:00.000-08:00

Some things have happened recently that have made me feel old. At first I was concerned but I now seem to have found a way of dealing with this revelation.

The first was during one of those quick shopping trips on the way home from work. I dashed around the isles getting the four urgent items and joined tea-time queue of other weary travellers in a similar position; all wondering why there was only one till open at such a busy time. I looked around the store at the other workers and had to wonder why folding empty cardboard boxes was more important than serving customers.

When it was my turn to be scowled at by the shop assistant I readied myself to pay and was asked to enter my PIN number. For the life of me I could not remember it. It had gone from my mind and I couldn’t find it anywhere.

I stood for a moment as if I was trying to understand the theory of relativity but nothing would come into my mind. I managed to pay for the few items with the collection of loose change I carry around with me because I am too lazy to empty my pockets.

I remembered the number just as I arrived home but that didn’t stop me worrying ever so slightly.

The next episode was whilst watching the telly. I had always been aware that TV viewing with older people can be a painful experience. My father had ruined many a good show by insisting that the quizzes were fixed and that none of what you see is true. Now it seems that he was right all along. I now watch the programmes with the same degree of cynicism and, in the process, annoy my own children.

‘Game shows are designed to make you feel guilty’ I explain to my long suffering daughters. The number of times the host says ‘The contestants will lose their chance to dance again next week unless you phone in and vote for them’ or ‘Their whole future in the jungle relies on your vote’. Apparently it is my fault that these celebrities don’t make it. Such pressure!

I say all this to my daughters and they look at me like I looked at my father; I know it is a sign of my youth slipping away.

The final example was fuelled by recent football events and the fate of the England team. I had watched the match against Croatia and felt more than sad at the outcome. My wife, noticing my malaise, tried to cheer me up by reminding me that it was ‘only a game’. This didn’t work even though she seemed to enjoy the conversation.

‘Now I will have to wait until the World Cup!’ I said trying to offer an explanation for my state of mind. Then it came to me that, even if I reach three score years and ten, I only have six World Cups left to enjoy.

Forgetting my pin number is one thing. Getting annoyed at the TV is another. Having only six of the most important football competition is just too big to cope with.

My wife, who also looked a little shocked at this, tried to come to my aid by reminding me that I do have the possibility of twenty three FA cup finals. It helped but I needed more!

‘How many premiership matches might I have?’ I asked, searching for comfort. A quick calculation showed that I had well over 800 to work with; all was not lost.

I started to breathe again and reflected on the fact that if you count all international matches, including friendlies, it is probably reaching nearly the thousand mark. By now I was on a role and working out other leagues and football competitions. It was good to feel young again. In fact my wife tells me that I haven’t ever really grown up, which I think was a compliment.

So my advice to you if you are feeling old is not count your life in World Cups; make the most of every game you can find.

2007-12-22T14:51:00.000-08:00

Granddad has been with us for a few days leading up to Christmas. It is his chance to see the kids and to spoil them with the odd shilling. Just three years off ninety he has managed to keep both his mobility and much of his mental dexterity, meaning that the most fun we can have with him is over his gradual loss of hearing. He makes up for this lack by increasing the volume of both the TV and all of his conversations.

Perhaps it is because he wants to make the most of his time but these days he tends to rise early for breakfast; well before the rest of us have begrudgingly thrown our alarm clocks across the room.

Occasionally I will have to match him in greeting the sparrow’s song because of work commitments and have noticed that his deafness has lead to a lack in his ability to whisper. So he shouts his whisper to me from the foot of the stair, ‘Do you want a brew?’

‘No thanks, Sam, I am not thirsty’ I reply in true hushed tones for fearing waking the rest of the house.

‘Who’s Kirsty?’ he asks completely missing the point. Bless him.

He is a picture when we return from an evening out playing cards and sampling some local ale. He approaches the front door with his key ready and a firm instruction to me ‘to be quiet’, for fear of waking the whole house. Typically he tells me this in his not very quiet whisper.

Still having him around is fun even though he has his own special way of doing things.

A couple of evenings ago I was settled in for a night of watching pointless TV and eating comfort food when the old timer informed me that he was short of one Christmas card and would appreciate a trip to the super market to resolve this most urgent of problems. I wanted to quiz him on how much he liked the proposed recipient of this Christmas greeting but I chose to agree to a shopping trip because I was both running short of chocolate and couldn’t find a programme that didn’t have C list celebrities as the main attraction.

As we buckled our seat belts Granddad informs me that he had had the opportunity of buying a card for his collection when he was in town that afternoon but had refused to part with the £1.49 requested by the price sticker; he felt sure that he could get a suitable one for less than quid.

So we set off on our 5 mile journey to save my wife’s father 50p. I started to work out the cost of petrol for such an exercise but decided that the season demanded more kindness that I was currently feeling; that and the fact that my wife gave me a knowing look.

At the late-night supermarket we set off in different directions to complete our respective missions. My wife headed to the right and disappeared into a clothing section which brought me out in a mild panic. Sam went to inspect the vast selection of cards on offer and I went toward all things confectionary only to be side tracked by the electrical aisle. Why do they make these products so shiny and irresistible?

We met again on the way out and compared our purchases at which point Granddad confesses that he had not made a single purchase. ‘The choice is rubbish’, he says ‘And I am sure that I can get them cheaper else where’. It is not that he isn’t generous, he just likes to get good value.

It was at this point that I realised that the world is split into two types of people; those who will travel several miles to save 3p on a sliced loaf and those who have a life.

I wanted to explain this new theory to the old fella but was lead away by my understanding wife.

Eager to end this episode I encouraged our party to head for the car. ‘Come on Sam, Let’s get home I am getting thirsty’ I called.

‘Who’s Kisty?’ offered Sam in his own special way.

Feature Wall

2007-12-17T01:46:00.001-08:00

The decorating is coming along a treat and we have managed to work our way around paint pots and rollers to continue with normal life during the process. It has been my aim to limit most of the required work to applying several coats of emulsion and to resist any conversations about wallpaper.

It is not that I mind a bit of paper hanging it is just that you don’t have to worry about plumblines and matching patterns with vinyl silk. You are also spared the embarrassment off confirming to the world that you never learn to cut a straight line with scissors.

I was happy that my plan was coming together when out of the blue, and in the middle of a conversation with our daughters, my wife mentioned that she would like to have a feature wall in the lounge. I asked what one of these might be and was told that it was good taste to paper one wall in order to show some creativity. Apparently it should stand out from the other walls in order that the other colours might find their own voice. In the name of all that is woodchip what has the world come to?

Not satisfied with this homage to makeover programmes the girls started to talk about accessorising the room. I listened further and understood this to mean, amongst other things, that the collection of photographs marking the Molineaux girls’ changes in hairstyles would no longer hang on our walls. The pictures themselves were not the problem; it was the fact that none of the frames matched that caused concern.

‘Feature walls, accessorising, colours having a voice’, I mumbled as I went off to apply masking tape to anything that could not be moved.

The girls spent their time looking through photograph albums trying to agree on which pics would sit well on our bright, clean walls. You can probably imagine that such agreement was not easy to find.

Females never like any of their photographs; or if they do find one that is just about acceptable a sister will object that it is not a good one of them and therefore couldn’t possible be used. My wife was pleased with most of them but, caught up in the spirit of decorating, held them towards the emulsion to see if they clashed which I am not sure is a wholly acceptable way of judging your children.

Meanwhile I carried on applying a mixture of paint and loose hairs from the brush to the walls. I daydreamed of simpler times when colours had names like Post Office Red or British Racing Green and when it was acceptable to cover old work surfaces with sticky backed plastic.

I was drawn back to the conversation by the girls’ hysterical laughter and my need to feel included. They had found a family holiday photo that had captured their whole attention.

Daughter number one must have been around thirteen and it was obvious that a family vacation was not what she wanted to be involved in, let alone a group photograph.

Imagine the scene; the whole gang on the beach, all wearing our cossies and factor six million sun screen (Mrs M being a nurse a lecture on sensible sunbathing was always an important part of our holiday enjoyment). I had my traditional holiday hat to protect my bald patch from harmful rays.

With the bright sun, the blue sky and the golden sand it was a beautiful and colourful portrayal of family life. Except that is for Mrs Molineaux’s eldest; she was wearing black trousers, black shirt, black coat, and dark sun glasses.

It was as if the teenager had been superimposed on to the photograph after the event. Her whole manner, even her facial expression, shouted her disapproval at being with the family on holiday.

As we viewed the photograph she admitted to not being totally committed to the collective family experience that year. I tried to encourage her by saying that perhaps she was our ‘Feature Daughter’ in that she stood out from the others and allowed them to find their own voices.

Abseiling

2007-12-07T09:44:00.000-08:00

As a youngster I enjoyed the usual practice of joining clubs of various types. I am not sure what it says about my character but I invariable stayed in each one just long enough to cause my parents the expense of buying the necessary uniform. Then, with hardly a grass stain on my cricket trousers or a bead of sweat on my judo outfit, I would leave.

So it was that I approached parenthood with a little nervousness; feeling sure that my mother’s grandchildren would take suitable revenge on my lack of stickability by dealing with me in similar manner.

We went through various dance and sports clubs and I am pleased to report that my girls must have inherited their mother’s ability to remain in a group for more than five minutes. So when our youngest daughter announced that she wanted to join the Scouts it was not my confidence in her ability to last the course that caused my concern, just her choice of club.

‘The Scouts only let boys join’. I explained in that over confident way that parents have when they feel sure that they know more than their offspring.

After an increasingly frustrating exchange I was un-nerved enough to phone a fellow parent only to find out that not only do they now allow girls to join but the leader was in fact a lady. You could have knocked my down with a woggle.

So it was that the youngest of our tribe became the first female in the Molineaux family to both dib and dob.

I knew, as all parents do, that such involvement in a club was not merely for the kids. There is a force at play that has been around for generations; one that no feeble Dad can resist. It is the momentum that makes you have to join in with some event that all your logic tells you can only end in tears.

It started on the way home in the car when Mrs Molineaux’s youngest informed me that the Scouts were going to raise money by abseiling down the church tower. I should have kept quiet, or at the very least told her to speak to her mother about it, but I feigned interest and was drawn into the trap. By the time we had reached home and her excitement had reached blue Smarty level I had agreed to take part.

The day came and the helpless parents were lead to the church hall with their energy filled offspring. We were given a brief lecture at which the phrase ‘accidents very rarely happen’ was slipped in almost un-noticed. I wanted to shout ‘Very rarely! What does that mean?’ but I was under orders not to embarrass my daughter.

The children went first and confident procession of eight and nine year olds, including daughter number, bounced down the side of the ancient tower. It was then our turn and I had the misfortune of following a Dad who must have been in the SAS in his part time because not only did he tell jokes on the way down but he went face first. I resisted the temptation to cut his rope and teach him a valuable lesson about showing off.

When it came to my turn it seemed that the crack team controlling all things rope-like were distracted by free pizza. Unsupervised I stuttered my way toward to ground until, about half way down, the equipment snagged meaning that although my top half kept going my lower body would not move. I hung up side down on a rope for a few minutes allowing the ‘helpers’ to enjoy their pizza.

Eventually, still the wrong way up, I was lowered to the ground to the applause of small children and the sniggers of other parents all of which was caught on video.

I showed the footage to my parents as evidence that my juvenile lack of commitment had done them both a favour; neither of them having to face the embarrassment of abseiling down a church tower or similar.

They were too busy laughing at the video to say thank you.

Royal Family

2007-11-16T13:03:00.000-08:00

I have always imagined the Molineaux household to be a replica of the Royal Family; the one with Jim and Barbara rather than Elizabeth and Philip.

I am not making this comparison because I swear a lot and sit around in my vest or that we alternate our family alcohol consumption with drinking tea.

No! I speak of such things because we have been, for many years, a family that congregates around the TV even when there seems to be little of interest to view. It never ceases to amaze me that we have over seven hundred channels available and yet still we complain that there is nothing to watch.

What surprises me even more is that, in our search for entertainment, we can spend the whole length of a programme flicking from channel to channel before going back to the one that we started at. Even when the adverts come on we embark on a flicking session and often end up forgetting which programme we were watching.

I am not complaining about all of our TV experience because we, like many others, find a great deal of pleasure in arguing about the scores awarded to celebrity ballroom dancers or debating the comments given to singers who have been deemed to be factored with a large amount of X.

I had thought that this was the picture of our future until a few days ago. I walked into the living room, after doing one of those jobs that it seems only Dads can do, expecting to find my precious family huddled around the box in corner. The TV was indeed switched on but the sound was at a low level whilst the three Molineaux females present (wife and two youngest daughters) were all sat typing away on lap top computers.

Amazed, I stood and watched for a moment and then asked a few questions to find out what had brought this seismic change in our lounge room activities.

Daughter number four was simultaneously watching video clips on YouTube (think computerised low budget TV channel) and ‘speaking’ to her friends on MSN (think an electronic version of passing notes around at school).

Daughter number three was engrossed in a video editing session whilst listening to music on an IPod through her head phones (think miniature record player that isn’t affected by dust).

My wife, who is curiously able to use a computer but not equipped enough to tune in her own car radio, was setting up own Face Book page (think diary, photo album and scrapbook shared with others). The girls had banned her from having a My Space page (think Face Book but for younger people) because they were worried that their friends might find out.

Engrossed in their own cyber worlds they would occasionally communicate their findings to each other, yet none of them seemed to have noticed that football was on the TV. What are these amazing pieces of electronic wizardry that have the power to quench negative comments about sport on the telly?

Is this the future for our families? Will the TV be merely background noise to the sound of computer keyboards? Are we about to leave behind our Royal Family status?

I shared these thoughts with my wife who was horrified at even the thought that we resembled Jim and Barbara. ‘We are nothing like them’ she protested as she went off to make a pot of tea.

When I was younger entertainment choices were simpler. We all watched TV and chose from three channels some of which only showed programmes for part of the time. The next day we would laugh at Morecambe and Wise as we shared the experience again.

Sitting around the TV was what we did in the evening when Dad came home from work. We were real people watching made up stories about imaginary characters.

Now we can listen to music whilst checking out websites and email friends with football on the TV in the background.

There is one benefit to all these changes; whilst the girls spend their time surfing the net I get to use the remote control (think one of the greatest inventions of all time).

Decorating

2007-11-09T13:01:00.000-08:00

My precious wife, in her wisdom, has decided that we NEED to decorate. The emphasis on the word need is in direct proportion to the strength with which she said it.

There are times when she uses the N word and it contains no more hidden meaning than any other comment. On this occasion, however, it contained all the force of any of the other times that she has felt that my involvement is required without delay.

I hadn’t noticed this lack in our home design set up until she mentioned it to me whilst I was engrossed in an exciting episode of Spooks. I tried the usual fake acknowledgements of the conversation but she seemed to mean business. I even tried to deflect things by saying that we would talk about it during the adverts but she was quick off the mark in noticing that the said prog was on BBC1.

It is not that I am against decorating, in fact I find it strangely therapeutic, it is just that it always ends up being decorating with VAT.

Take for example the conversation about colour schemes; I am politely invited (and by invited I mean compelled) to join in with the selection, knowing full well that my opinions will be put to one side like an empty tin of magnolia.

No sooner has the title sequence started at the end of my favourite TV series and I am asked a growing number of questions that I am both too tired and unequipped to answer.

‘How much would a new carpet cost for this room’ she says signalling that she has more in mind than a few pots of emulsion.

‘A lot more than hiring a steam cleaner’ I reply pretending to be helpful but in actuality trying to apply the metaphorical brakes.

The conversation continues being punctuated only by my search for the tape measure in the drawer specifically designated as a ‘safe place’ for all those things that you use once a year. After ten minutes of muttering under my breath with my hands in the drawer I attempt to decide the required curtain size using a six-inch (and by six inches I mean 15.24mm) school ruler and a length of string.

The conversation only ends when I agree to visit the DIY centre the following weekend.

We arrive at the aircraft hanger filled with overpriced symbols of western aspiration (a little deep for a Saturday morning I know but I am still applying those metaphorical brakes) late enough to avoid all the retired folk who couldn’t sleep and so queued for the shop to open.

My plan was clear; paint, brushes, pay go for lunch. My wife’s plan was to spend years (and by years I mean too much time on a Saturday) looking at paint in very boring shop.

In truth we spent most of the time trying to decide whether we preferred Amber Spirit or Moroccan sunset; both of which were a kind of yellow and seemed to be indistinguishable from each other. We then had a dialogue (and by dialogue I mean argument) about which white we preferred which seemed to me to be a bizarre situation for two reasons; firstly, they were all white and the only reason we could see any difference was because we had them side by side in the shop, which of course would be the case in our hallway. Secondly, I was engaged in the conversation even though I didn’t care which version of white we chose. It is as if I had been conditioned by the surroundings to actually want to have an opinion.

I made the right decision in the end and agreed that my bride knew more about colour choices than me, thus both speeding up the process and making the possibility of eating chicken in harmony a reality.

I can now report that painting has at last started and were as during the selection stage I was effectively redundant somehow now I am needed more than anyone else in the household so that whilst I watch Amber Spirit dry my wife watches the next episode of Spooks.

Wedding Pics

2007-11-03T05:04:00.000-07:00

Do you ever have that sudden rush of blood to your head that makes you think that you are far more skilled at something that you actually are? I did it last summer when I volunteered to be the photographer at my eldest daughter’s wedding.

At the time of agreement I felt sure that I could do it having dabbled a little with a camera whilst at college. As the wedding day grew nearer I began to feel a certain dread at the thought that so much relied on me. To give me comfort I arranged for my old pal Nigel to be available with his telephoto lens as a backup.

Suitably armed with a list of everyone who should be included in the after service snap session, and as many digital memory sticks as I could beg steal or borrow, I set up the tripod and camera in the grounds of the hotel that had become temporary home to the extended Molineaux clan.

I noted that several guests had not seen other family members for ‘over twenty years’; with such a lack of family commitment I wanted to ask them how they could justify costing me money by being present now. Instead I kept my thoughts to my self and set off on my mission to make everyone smile for long enough so that future generations would believe we were a fully functional family.

You would think that people would be sympathetic to the needs of an amateur photographer at his daughter’s wedding but I have to report that everyone (and by everyone I mean a few) were so busy enjoying themselves that they would often ignore my calls for attention.

People fell into five distinct camps that I am sure is typical for a wedding party:

There were those whose only aim was to ensure that they used all five of their disposable cameras standing in front of my more than expensive digital SLR. I tried to be polite but by now the sweat was starting to drip on to my lens as I developed a mild panic at the thought that I was out of my depth.

Then there were those who seemed to have temporarily forgotten their names; no matter how loud I shouted for them, or how near I stood to them, they were oblivious to the fact that I was actually addressing them.

Next there were those who could not remember which group they belonged to; no matter how many times I asked for ‘all the Brides school friends’ I would not end up with the correct group. I have eleven photographs of this group containing a selection of different people including an elderly female relative who thought she was joining a queue for food.

As with every wedding there were a few who had decided that there was far too much alcohol in the hotel and it was their mission in life to solve this problem. As soon as the ceremony was over they had loosened their ties and headed to find a position where they could simultaneously drink and complain at the prices.

There were, of course, those who happily joined in with my manic display of poor photography management. Aunties helping to throw confetti on the count of three. Children who did their best to not pull funny faces when I asked them to smile. Old men who didn’t feel offended when I suggested that they straightened their ties and combed what little hair they had.

As my time in charge grew to an end I was comforted in the fact that I had a digital camera and was sure that I had a good bunch of photographs to choose from. Fortunately I was reminded at the last moment that although I had included everyone that moved (and a few that didn’t) in my picture taking I didn’t have any with the Father-of-the bride on. I handed my camera to Nigel (everyone needs a Nigel) and stood proud, if not a little hot and bothered, with my precious family for a permanent reminder of our special day.

Toilet Signs

2007-10-28T09:20:00.000-07:00

I know that nostalgia is not what it used to be but I am sure that there was a time when signs were easier to understand than they are today.

Take for example those found on toilet doors in any public building: gone are the days when we were presented with the choice between 'Ladies' and 'Gents'. It seems that 'Guys' and 'Gals' have a more modern feel. I even came across one set of doors that said 'Laddies' and 'Luvvies'.

Now please understand that I am not writing as one of those who wish the English language would remain the same forever. I just have a concern that one day I will be in such a hurry to 'pay a visit' that I will go in the wrong toilet.

As with most anxieties this concern is probably linked to an event in my youth that shaped my future thinking. I recall being in a youth choir during my school years and having to perform at Manchester's Free Trade Hall.

As 'artistes' we were ushered into the changing rooms somewhere below stage and told to wait until we were called. Just before we were due to appear in front of the expectant audience I must have had a touch of stage fright and urgently needed to find a toilet. I travelled around corridor after corridor until I eventually found a door with the word 'Gents' in big bold letters.

In I went and was happy to find that the toilets were empty; for a few moments at least. It wasn't long, however, before I heard voices which I soon realised were female. Sat in that lonely cubicle I had only two choices; I could make my excuses and leave red faced or I could wait it out until the crowd disappeared. Being the brave soul that I am I waited until the sound of ladies voices had faded. It appears that whilst I was 'engaged', so to speak, the caretaker had replaced the 'Gents' sign with a 'Ladies' one without checking if anyone was inside.

This experience has lead to the concern I have for the clarity of such signage. Now, it would seem that my worry is justified for we have started to move away from those containing words to pictorial representations. Most of them have simple block drawings of either a man or a woman which, in a bad light and on a full bladder, can seem a little unclear. Some establishments, in an attempt at being arty or clever, have engravings that seem designed to make you take a pause before entering whilst you take a closer look, thus slowing things down. This I don't need; at my time of life the whole process takes longer than I would like anyway.

Such things are not a problem on the continent where toilet boundaries are more ambiguous. I recall on one holiday to France stopping in a village only to find a communal loo where the females had to walk past the men's urinals to get to a cubicle. Added to this there was a distinct lack of seating facilities, offering no more than a hole in the ground with a chain hanging from the ceiling with which to hold oneself in a suitable position. Needless to say the daughters all refused to pay a visit on this occasion and thus waited cross legged until we happened upon a more up-to-date facility.

In this country, however, a 'privy' should be, by definition, relatively private. So come on Britain; I can cope with hand dryers that pump out cold air (that is why men wear jeans), I can deal with broken locks on cubicle doors (That is why we learn to whistle from an early age), I can even make do with over energetic flush systems on the urinals (that is why we hone our reactions on the gaming machines). I just need to be able to easily decipher what the sign means on the toilet door. If communication is to work it should do 'exactly what it says on the tin' (to borrow a phrase). Or should that be 'exactly what it says on the can'.

Tattoo

2007-10-20T09:05:00.000-07:00

Much to my daughters dismay I have never been one for taking too many risks with my appearance; in fact I take comfort in the simple idea that weekends are about t-shirts, in direct contrast to my weekdays, which contain shirts and ties.

Even when I was younger I watched as other lads got curly perms (think Kevin Keegan) and ear rings (think the lads on the fairground who could make standing on a moving ride look easy).

I toyed with the idea of going blond in an attempt at looking like Sting until a rather too honest friend pointed out that they could change my hair but not my face.

So I was left to take pride in my handle-bar moustache (think The Village People). When I grew it in the seventies it was at the end of a fad for facial hair. I had quite light locks and so it took me months to produce anything that could be seen by the naked eye. Looking back at old photos now I can see that it just appears to be two faint clumps of fluff on either side of my chin with very little on my upper lip.

So it is that, as I approach half a century (not out), I have decided to get a tattoo. Not a big brash one, just a small discrete symbol of my wish to be different, by being the same as other people. I recall meeting one larger than life girl who had a tattoo of David Beckham complete with his own miniature Tattoos; this is surely commitment to the cause when even your tattoos have tattoos.

My father-in-law (who, at eighty seven, has fought in seven world wars for the likes of youngsters like me) rolled his eyes and chuckled as I announced the news of my intent to be permanently marked.

He has a rather impressive military shield on his left forearm so I asked him how he came about having such artistry on his body. He told me that during the Second World War, when he was stationed in India, he and a mate had too much time and money available for such young lads away from home.

They had been for a night out and had more than their fair share of rocket fuel and so were feeling very brave. They arrived at the Tattooist just as he was getting ready to close but managed to talk them into staying for just two more jobs.

He agreed and they both selected a large and intricate emblem to go on their chests. The proprietor, however, was unable to stay in order to do two difficult pieces. He suggested that one of the lads should have a chest tattoo and the other should have one on his arm.

They were both a little disappointed but agreed to toss a coin to see who should have the glory of the chosen design. My father in law lost and, in his lubricated state, unhappily had to make do with the lesser offering.

The next morning things were a little different, as his army pal woke in pain to face a day's duty with a stinging reminder of their drunken episode.

Hearing granddad’s tale has made me take time to reconsider the idea of body art. So what I am supposed to do to mark my journey through middle age.

My third daughter settled the matter by deciding that she wanted to get her own emblem carefully inked on her wrist and has accused me of wanting to copy her; then rest of the girls joined in to say that my idea of body art at my age was all wrong.

So I am left with choosing either blonde streaks or a curly perm; or perhaps, seeing I have a receding hairline, growing my hair long and wearing it in a ponytail, pulled back so that it looks like it has been caught in a lift door and is stretching my forehead back (think Francis Rossi from Status Quo).

Passport Vanity

2007-10-13T06:04:00.000-07:00

Recently we had to send away our old and tattered driving licences for address changes requiring us to provide photographs.

Having found a photo booth, and enough change to feed it, we set about trying to work out how to get the best from this most cruel piece of modern machinery. I am not sure what it is about them but they seem to bring out panic in nearly everyone. You respond as if you are about to capture a piece of your very soul and not just a convenient picture.

Steeling ourselves we spun the seat to the required height and read the instructions. My wife had volunteered to go first and you would think that would be the end of the story. Impatient to get on with other more important things I attempted to put sterling into the slot but my wife was not ready to pose.

She took out of her bag several combing devices, a selection of make-up gunk and a small mirror. ‘I will have to look at this photo for the next few years’ she said as if offering a defence.

Having satisfied her need to prune she positioned herself and the picture was taken. Now it was my turn and I readied myself to get it over with as quick as I could. ‘Are you not going to comb your hair’ said my bride with a mixture of care and disappointment. ‘Do you think I need to’ I replied. She handed me a comb without a word as if an answer to my question was not necessary. Hair suitably rearranged I sat waiting for the flash to go off trying to neither smile not grimace; such that I ended up looking like I was slightly constipated.

We waited for our photos with a mixture of fear and fun knowing that they would look both awful to us and amusing to anyone else who viewed them.

‘I am going to get mine done again’ said my wife threatening to spend another four pound. I convinced her that there was no point in redoing the sitting as it was unlikely that anyone would see the finished result due to the fact that she never drives fast enough for the police to be interested in stopping her for a chat.

I understand her concern because I know as well as the rest of the population that the machines are designed to show every blemish and wrinkle so that no feature will escape the glare of the flash lighting.

I also think that we have been spoilt by the computer technology available to us meaning that we can touch up our snaps in a way that was once only available to top fashion photographers. I have enjoyed the fact that I can remove the odd blemish and wrinkle without resorting to plastic surgery.

I am not sure about the morality, however, of airbrushing your children’s photographs to make them look prettier. I once had a colleague who edited one such picture so that his son’s ears didn’t look to be so sticky out. I can’t imagine it would give you much confidence in later life to know that your dad thought you were so ugly that he had to resort to such measures.

Anyway no such luxuries with a photo booth so were left to make the best of a bad lot.

When we arrived home I made the comment that we could use one of the photographs to renew our passports, thereby saving money. My wife would have none of it insisting that she was unwilling to travel around the world having to show people this sub standard image.

‘I suppose it is only four pounds’ I thought as she went off to make a phone call. She returned a few moments later looking happier and declaring that it was all sorted for the passport photograph as she had booked a hair appointment for the following week and would feel more confident about the resultant picture after that.

I looked at my photograph and then looked in the mirror noticing that the half smile-half grimace facial expression was now a permanent feature.

Caravans

2007-10-04T22:49:00.000-07:00

I am really good at parallel parking but have to admit that I am only good when I have the right conditions. Bizarrely, I can manage it really well between two narrowly positioned cars yet when I have to park next to the curb, and I have acres of room, I fail miserably. The same is true when towing a trailer; given the reference points of a narrow gate opening and I am a show off at reversing; in an empty field I am faced with too much choice and I look like a buffoon. Of course at my age I have years of experience to call on (reversing that is – not looking like a buffoon).

When our daughters were younger we were kindly given a caravan so that we could upgrade from the usual canvas holidays to ones with a few more luxuries; and when I say luxuries I mean curtains that don’t meet in the middle and lights that hint at being good enough to illuminate your world.

All packed up we set off for Cornwall with ideas of hot weather and rolling seas in our minds. My only concession to my inexperience at towing was a pledge to not go down any road unless I was sure that there was an exit at the other end. Reversing a trailer, after all, is for farmers and show offs. There seems to be a rule for family holidays that it set to try all parents; whenever you need a toilet/garage/restaurant you cannot find one.

When the noise of hungry children was at its loudest, we decided to stop at the next café for some well earned nosh. We drove for miles trying to convince the children that it wouldn’t be long before we found a food outlet.

Nearing desperation we spied signs for a country pub offering an ‘all day menu’. It looked to be a decent pub on a decent road, complete with children’s play area.

As we headed off the main road I saw two signs that made me break out in a mild panic; the first was a declaration that we were entering a dead-end. The second was a sign indicating that the road was un-adopted with the implication that it would be uneven.

By the time all of this news had sunk in it was too late to do anything about it and we could see the welcome sign in the pub window. We were all so tired and hungry that I decided to park up and worry about getting out after we had eaten.

Once all the feeding and watering had been done we returned to our vehicle and mobile home ready for the rest of our journey. I look at the car, then look at the road, then looked at my wife and kids and decided to make them feel proud of me.

It was a nightmare; not just because I couldn’t get the car and trailer to face the right way but because the beer garden was full of people watching every turn of the steering wheel. Some looked sympathetic, some where laughing and I swear I heard one or two of them clapping.

I tried for about a month (that is to say ten minutes) to make it work but I just kept ending up in more and more trouble. It looked more like I was trying to fold the car and caravan in half than turn it round.

Eventually one of the lads in the pub came over to offer some help. He explained that he was a lorry driver and that he couldn’t watch anymore as it was too painful an experience. It took him seconds, and I mean seconds. I swear that he even used just one finger on the steering wheel in an attempt at adding to how ridiculous I looked.

My daughters cheered, my wife said an embarrassed ‘thank-you’, and I went with the driver to the pub to buy him a drink. I walked back to the car feeling like a young buffoon determined to never try reversing a caravan again.

Like I said; Reversing a trailer is for farmers, show offs and smug lorry drivers

Breakfast

2007-09-17T10:26:00.000-07:00

Much to my wife’s bemusement I have spent the best part of my life avoiding the need to eat breakfast on a regular basis. I just don’t wake up hungry. Even when the girls were young, and I had the pleasure of arranging four different bowls of cereal, I was never tempted to join them.

I suppose it is because I have certain beliefs about the first meal of the day that have been, up until now, unshakeable.

Firstly, breakfast isn’t breakfast unless it contains bacon. I once heard someone in a hotel ask for a Full English without bacon. I wanted to walk across the room and tell them that they were asking the impossible.

Secondly, I have never heard a conversation about cereal that had the word ‘tasty’ in it. My wife has tried to convince me to try muesli and other cereals but she talks about them being ‘healthy’ or ‘good for your constitution’, none of which makes me want to get involved in such morning food.

The other phrase she uses, as if it has any serious meaning, is that ‘breakfast is the most important meal of the day’ to which I reply ‘well if it is it should definitely include bacon then’.

So it is that I very rarely have breakfast; except on holiday or special occasions when I will have a proper Full English.

For years I have maintained that I have seen no detrimental effect due to missing this morning nosh session. Then one day my wife returned from a training session as part of her job as a Practice Nurse; the subject, Healthy Eating.

I always fear these occasions because she will come home with ideas that she wants to test on me. I have had blood taken, diabetes tests, my heart rate monitored, breathing capacity tests and now I was faced with a survey of my eating habits.

After she had again ‘tutted’ at my avoidance of breakfast she quizzed me about my dinner habits.

‘I eat my sandwich at 9:15am’, I said not realising the significance of my words.

‘But that almost makes it breakfast’, uttered my bride in desperation.

‘No it doesn’t because I don’t have bacon with it’, I offered with impeccable reasoning.

Things went further down hill when she asked about my fruit intake for the day. She seemed all too eager to discount banana milkshake and a chocolate orange.

Eventually convinced that change was needed I agreed to start the redevelopment my eating plan by trying a number of cereals. The type I liked the most (either chocolate covered or sugar coated) were immediately banned as if my enjoyment of food was unhealthy. The variety I didn’t like all seemed to be made of wood shavings but were apparently good for me.

I finally found one that was bearable and decided to try it every day in an attempt at keeping my wife happy and hopefully losing a few pounds. One week in and I can report that it is just so very boring and I have come to the conclusion that I need more variety in order to sustain my interest.

Daughter number two (who had spent almost a year in the States) had informed me that it was not unusual for breakfast to include sausages AND maple syrup on the same plate. Now if it had some additional bacon it might be a good alternative.

Daughter number four added that in France they tend to just have croissants and jam as a lighter alternative, but this just seems like pretending to enjoy food; surely it is just posh jam and bread.

So what am I to do; I don’t really like cereal but my wife says that I need to eat breakfast every day in order to be healthy. What about bacon in a croissants; now I like the sound of that; OK its not a Full English, more a Part English, Part French.

The Birthday Party

2007-09-09T03:55:00.000-07:00

As you might imagine we have had our fair share of children's birthday parties. How things have changed over recent years; when I was a kid it was tradition for Dads to get off to the pub during such occasions and only return when the vacuum had been switched off and the last balloon had been burst. In this present climate all fathers are honour-bound to, not only be present at the celebration, but to take an active part in the entertainment.

I remember, on the occasion of our youngest daughter's fifth birthday, having to set up a make-shift disco unit in an old village hall. This community building had seen its fair share of nonsense during its 65 years of existence but I added to the collective sense of Dad embarrassment on this occasion.

The music had been selected and the two bulb light-set that I had bought for the party, was making zero impact on the brightly lit, early evening, magnolia walls. Balloons had been blown up and sandwiches had been covered in cling film to keep them 'fresh'. Our girls were already buzzing with excitement due to too much fizzy pop and the promise of party games.

Eventually some parents arrived to drop off their children each one having that same knowing look; a mixture of pity for us who were left behind and joy that it was not they who had to hold together such a major event. I offered one or two of the Dads a drink in the hope of bribing them to stay but they were all too wise to fall for such a ploy.

We started the party games with a cheer from all the children who were now reaching fever pitch; the noise level getting beyond bearable. Pass the parcel went off without a hitch and I managed to arrange it so that every child had a turn at ripping off the paper; I am not sure if this amounts to fraud but it makes for less tears. My own sadness with the game was that the kids cared little for the time and energy it took to wrap the parcel in the first place, such a lack of gratitude.

The game that caused the most fuss was the one where children were paired up in a three legged race style with the addition of a balloon attached to a child’s legs by means of a string. The aim of the game was to pop everybody else’s whilst retaining your own. I foolish agreed to partner daughter number three and as soon as the music started we were off on our popping mission.

The problem that I have is that I get far too competitive for my own good; or the good of anyone else for that matter. With a look of manic delight on my face, I lifted my six year old by the arms and dashed around the floor bursting innocent children’s balloons. With neither favouritism nor mercy I aimed for every piece of inflated coloured latex I could see whilst flinging my daughter in every direction. My daughter laughed in delight, my wife sighed in embarrassment, the other kids cried in defeat.

I am pleased to report that we were the winners but our victory was ruined by the tears of the other party goers and the look of disappointment on my wife's face. I tried to justify my actions by saying that I was teaching the children a valuable lesson about losing but my bride would have none of it; she tried to tell me that the party was for smaller kids not bigger ones.

I was made to watch the incident back on video in order that I might understand how strange I looked as my need to win overtook my need to be nice. My wife had shown the video to some of her female friends and they had concurred with her assessment of my immaturity. In defence I showed it to a number of mates to see what they thought of the whole episode. To a man they all laughed and cheered my efforts recognising that I had indeed taught the children a valuable lesson; don’t let Dad’s join in at parties.

Turning into my Dad

2007-09-06T07:11:00.000-07:00

There comes a moment in every parent's life when you realise that you are turning into your own Mum and Dad. It comes when you catch yourself saying a stock phrase used by your parents; one that you swore you would never utter. It could be something like, 'don't come running to me if you break you leg' or, the one my mother aimed at me regularly in desperation, 'Do you look for every puddle to jump in on your way home'. What fun days; when finding a puddle of mud meant adventure and not avoidance!

My wife and I overheard a young mother saying to her four-year old son 'Do you try to find every possible way to annoy me when we are out shopping'. As if rational discussion is possible with the naughtiness of a child.

I am sure that other saying will immediately spring to your mind, most of which will seem to revolve around some common truth. Firstly, they are usually born out of frustration and therefore rarely produce a change in the child’s behaviour. Secondly, they are often an exaggeration and as such impossible to defend. Thirdly, they are often more of a commentary on the parent's lack of joy than the child's free spirit.

Either way, once you have offspring of your own, the urge to say them is irresistible and is indeed one sign that you are becoming like your own parents.

There was another instance when I realised that I was turning into my father. I was sat on the sofa, in that Saturday afternoon post lunch, half dream state that seems to be so much a part of my life these days, when I spotted my dad's hand in my peripheral vision. I recognised it straight away and then immediately knew it could not be his. Firstly, he was 48 miles away across the Pennines and I felt sure that his Post Office training didn’t include warp speed travel. Secondly, the hand was connected to my arm at the wrist and I could operate it by simply thinking. Before this moment it had never occurred to me that I was looking more and more like dear old dad; but then in a split second I was faced with this obvious truth.

So what other changes await me as I surge onwards on life's conveyor belt. Will I start to miss whole portions of a film because I am distracted trying to remember what I have seen the actors in before? Will I start to read the obituary column just see if any old school chums have passed away?
Will I spend the best part of the day looking for my glasses case just because I want to use the pen stored in it?

I am not sure what brings about this change and at what age you count as being old. I was on a bus not too long ago when two teenagers stood and offered me a seat. I wanted to be so very proud of them in what was a great example of how young people are good at heart. I calmly asked them to sit down and never offer me a seat again as, at half a dog year under 50, I was not ready to be accorded such a dubious honour. They understood the humour in my comments and I thanked them for the sentiment.

I know that some things are true about the aging process. Firstly, there is an invisibility with age. The bus example not withstanding, it is general true that I can walk through any public place unnoticed because I just look like anyone of the other middle aged, well-rounded, slightly balding men.

Secondly, youth has such energy, passion and attractiveness it seems that even when teenagers wear all black they appear to living in full colour, therefore I want to say that youth is NOT wasted on the young; they seem to do their best to enjoy it. Perhaps it is just that old age is wasted on the old.

Anyway I am off to watch a Black and White film on TV, after all they are so much better than those in colour. They don’t make them like they used to.

My Pink World

2007-08-18T01:57:00.000-07:00

Let me just state for the record; I might be the dad of four daughters but I don't dress dolls, I don't like pink, and I don't carry handbags. I feel better for getting that off my chest. It's not that I am sexist you understand; I am quite happy to cry at a sad movie and do my fair share of household chores. I just feel the need to draw a line in the hormonal sand. The number of times I have been presented with a Cindy or Barbie, hair matted with hair band and arms twisted in a tribute to Twin Peaks, and asked 'Daddy can you put these trousers on my dolly?'

This is where I first learnt to shout 'I don't dress dolls!', whilst trying to force plastic legs into miniature denim. The fact that I have got five thumbs on each hand doesn't help matters but, after making my plea for mercy, I would usually give in and commit plastic grievous bodily harm.

My rejection of all things pink is probably just a bad reaction to the blancmange we were force fed at school; a dubious treat that came in a variety of unsociable colours. I sometimes wonder why I would have chosen to eat it, but then I remember that the other desserts on offer were sago, tapioca, and prunes. Enough said!

Pink, and when I say pink I mean all manner of bright colours, has been a recurring theme in my relationship with the girls. I recall needing a pen to complete a form whilst checking into a hotel. A daughter kindly rummaged through her tardis-like handbag and produced one that lit up when used, complete with a feather sticking out of the end. In my haste I hadn't noticed the glow and began to write at first unaware of the odd looks from other waiting guests. I have had similar experiences with umbrellas and key rings.

It is probably the hand bag carrying that causes me the most concern. I have always been happy to carry shopping home in plastic bags even though it has increased my carbon footprint. The problem comes when we are shopping as a family in one of those large centres where the shops look the same and there is a decided lack of chairs available for a tired dad.
On these occasions I usually assume the job of pack-horse and am steadily loaded up with merchandise during the day. The only time I am offered any relief from my lifting duties is when they need me to pay for another purchase.

Plastic bags not withstanding, I choose to draw the line at carrying their handbags (and when I say carry I mean hold because walking with one would be too much to ask). I will occasionally agree if my bride stays close by so that other shoppers will understand that the article is not mine. As soon my wife or the girls move more than two foot away I put the bag on the floor; standing over it as though I am guarding an important object.

So here I am; a male living in a female world. I take comfort in the fact that, because we have all daughters, it was always my wife who had to take them to the toilet when we were out for the day. Men’s toilets are no place for anyone of a sensitive nature. I don’t want to go into to much detail but boys, whether grown up or not, have no sense of direction.

This apart, there has still always been a tendency to draw me into their girlie world. Therefore, as an act of personal therapy, I would like to add a few other items to my original list of things that I refuse to do. I don’t untangle knotted jewellery, I don’t empty blonde hair out of the shower filter, and I don’t answer the question, ‘Does this dress suite me?’

Actually I do all of the above apart from the last one. I have learnt that it is a question far too dangerous to answer even if you are carrying a handbag.

In Tents

2007-08-11T10:44:00.000-07:00

We have been thinking about holidays again and the air is filled with talk of flights and villas, lotions and costumes. There has definitely been a progression in our household when it comes to such things. Only a few years ago, when the girls were easily fooled by the idea that being under canvas was fun, we would prepare for the summer months with thoughts a little less grand. We always tried our best to get a holiday no matter how limited our funds; some times it was fulfilled by visiting family across the Pennines and taking trips out to towns with more sand than sea. Or discovering the debatable beauty of refurbished canal walks hidden behind newly converted waterside dwellings.

Most of our holidays involved camping and as such were a strain on our tempers and our backs. I don’t know what it is about inflatable mattresses but they seem to be timed to deflate at about the same time as you manage to drop off to sleep. Cooking is not much more fun as you try to make a Sunday lunch using one pan and a Swiss army knife. The girls were mostly oblivious to such difficulties and enjoyed the different sights and sounds of outdoor life.

One of our most memorable excursions was to an event on the Lincolnshire showground along with thousands of other families. Having arrived at the site, stressed from a journey with far too many toilets stops and burger wrappers, we attempted to set up the tent. Let me warn you that tents are like Christmas tree lights; they never come out of the bag in the same neat order that you put them in the previous year. To add to this trial I had forgotten to bring the large box of tent pegs collected over our years of camping. Being Friday night on a bank holiday weekend there was little chance of replacements being available, so I was left to wander round the campsite searching for all the bent ones left by previous campers. After losing several yards of skin on my knuckles during the straightening process, we were able to use our temporary abode at the same time as the light faded in the sky.

On the second night of our stay, at about two in the morning, I heard whispered voices on the other side of the canvas. As quick as a dad can, I scrambled out of the tent to see half a dozen teenagers about to run away. I managed to catch one by the arm and began my investigation feeling sure that they must be up to some mischief. The boy shook with a little fear as I quizzed him, 'What on earth are you up to at this time in the morning?' I asked.
'We were playing a game', he spluttered.
'A game! What kind of game?' I said, not satisfied with his response.
'I am not sure if I should tell you', he replied.
'Just tell me what the game was', I said letting go of his shirt sleeve.
'It's called Hunt the Loudest Snorer'.

I should have ended the conversation there but lack of sleep or stupidity had now kicked in.

'And...............who was the loudest snorer?' I asked uncertain of whether I wanted to hear his response.
'I am not sure if I should tell you' he repeated.
'Just say it' I said somewhat prepared for his reply.
'You were!'

I let him go and chuckled as I returned to my deflated airbed.

In the morning I told my wife about what had happened (she didn’t seem too interested at the time). 'At last!' she said with a sense of victory, as if now others knew of her life of suffering.

Her reply didn’t concern me and I did a victory lap around the tent; being a competitive male I take any ‘win’ as an achievement no matter how dubious. As my reward for being ‘The Camps Loudest Snorer’, I re-inflated the airbed and returned for en extra few moments practice of my new found talent.

Bathroom Blues

2007-08-04T11:46:00.000-07:00

Early morning bathroom fever used to hit our house every day, as the five females of the home all tried to mark out their territory. Mostly this involved laying claim to the hairdryer or carrying round the curly brush to make sure it was always available (I still, to this day, have to work out why, in a house of a hundred brushes, only one was good enough for all of them). Added to this was the rush for the bathroom door with each one demanding that they had a reason to take priority. I often tried to bring some logic to the arguments that raged about who should rightfully inherit the water closet first. I soon realised that my involvement was neither wanted nor useful.

Things have not always been so tense in casa Molineaux; for the first eighteen months of married life we owned a terraced house. It was advertised to us as having an ‘indoor toilet’, because at that time many older homes still only had an external ‘privy’.

In truth it was an extra cupboard built into the back box room but, because we are at a nostalgic age, we now lovingly refer to it as an en suite bedroom.

Over time we gradually increased our bedroom space to accommodate our offspring but, due to the older nature of our houses, we never quite managed extra bathrooms; meaning that queues for baths and toilets have been a regular feature.

I have tried several schemes in order to avoid such gridlock in the morning. I had a run of setting the girl’s alarms at 15 minute intervals, but it only took one daughter to sleep in to throw the whole schedule into chaos.

I have learnt over the years to spend as little time doing my own ablutions as possible in order that I might not enrage the already anxious female population of our house. When I do leave the shower, after the shortest time possible, it is to the sound of my wife complaining about the excess water on the floor; apparently I am supposed to begin the drying process whilst still in the foot and half of cubicle space.

I am not sure that the complaints are justified when you consider the obstacle course that I have to negotiate following female bath time; this after I have found my way through the haze of perfume and other noxious gases that come out of the cosmetic pots.

For me shower time is a quick event with the point of the exercise being to get clean. All our girls are unanimous in the view that it can also be good therapy to stand motionless under moving water for a very long time. If I were cruel I would try to speed up the process by turning on a downstairs hot tap in order to change the water pressure and temperature. (No! Honestly I haven’t done this).

At a moment of greatest frustration I once joined a local sports club because it had excellent showers and the queue was less than the one at home.

Things started to get a little easier as two of the girls headed for university and I hoped that my opportunity for a free bathroom might arrive when our eldest daughter got married last year. The actual result was that she now visits and brings her new husband along to join the queue.

My other main complaint is that my razor is no longer my own; after I have spent a small fortune on blades I find that they lose their sharpness within days. Apparently those designed especially for females are not as good.

I have finally fallen on an excellent idea that I am sure will solve such problems. It came to me whilst I was waiting to buy cheese at our local supermarket. I pulled the ticket from the handy machine provided and calmly waited for my number to be displayed on the electronic sign. Then it came to me; if it is good enough for shoppers wanting dairy products then it should work well with daughters wanting to start the day with a shower.