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.
My Pink World
Parking
I have an American friend who is trying to come to terms with living in the UK, with all its quaintness and charm. After a number of years of connecting with local families he can now cope with the differences in language and the speed, and spelling, of our ‘humor’. There is one thing, however, that bemuses him and turns him into a nervous wreck, mumbling under his breath whilst checking the internet for flights back home. Car Parks! He just cannot understand why there is so little room between each space. 'How do you park in them?' he will often ask and to be honest I don’t have a complete answer.
I suppose, in truth, lack of space is something we get used to from birth. We are an island nation and, as such, are practically standing shoulder to shoulder, or should that be bumper to bumper. Anyway! He does have a point, after trying to decide who to vote for in the ‘X Factor’ parking is probably one of the most stressful pastimes that we have.
You drive in to the already heaving area outside the supermarket and immediately switch into fighter pilot mode, eyes scanning each lane for either a space or any sign of movement that might indicate someone has had enough and is about to go. More experienced parkers recognise the true signs and look for brake or reversing lights to switch on, or perhaps that short puff of carbon monoxide telling you a car engine has just been ignited. If all this fails you have only two options left.
Firstly, you can pick a lane and sit, holding your ground whilst fending off other would be shoppers, giving them a stern 'I am about to park next, thank you very much' expression. Marking out your territory you position yourself about half way down the section and put your indicator on so as to encourage other drivers to ‘just keep on moving’.
Secondly, you could spy a shopper coming out of the supermarket, heavy laden with bags, and follow them around the car park until they arrive at their vehicle. Then you park across their vehicle so others are made aware of your intentions. This method does have the danger of making you look like a would-be stalker so don’t be surprised if security arrive and start speaking loudly into their radios.
Experience will show you that it is very rarely fruitful to follow a solo guy on his way out of the shop. He will be most likely popping back to the car to either put some bags in the boot or escaping to take a crafty moment to listen to the football on the radio whilst his wife is trying on shrunken jeans in the changing rooms. Either way you will follow him to certain disappointment as he mimes to you 'I AM NOT GOING YET' whilst waving his arms in an attempt at helping his communications.
Parking is also a problem because my wife is always severely disappointed in my choice of space. After driving round for what seems like an eternity she declares 'You just missed one', a comment that is designed to make me stop and try to reverse into shopping trolleys. When we eventually find a space she is joined in her disquiet by our daughters asking why I couldn’t find one nearer to the shops.
My favorite parking episode, however, concerns the day that, to my amazement, we arrived early to a large shopping complex to find the car park practically empty. Not being accustomed to finding ourselves in this position we reverted to type and drove around a couple of times before I decided on a suitable place to rest our vehicle. My wife couldn’t resist a final word as she said 'You passed a better place just over there.'
My America friend assures me that although car parks are different across the pond, wives are exactly the same.
Woman Code
Shopping: now there’s a disaster waiting to happen. It’s ok for my wife, who seems to be able to sniff out an ideal purchase from several miles away. She is an expert shopper; not something I will freely admit in public, so please don’t tell her that I said it. She has her own tried and tested methodology that highlights the difference between us. As I try to project manage the whole operation; with questions designed to limit both the amount of precious time used and the shoe leather lost, my wife has but one phrase in response to all of my requests for answers. “I will know it when I see it”.
It makes absolutely no sense to me but I suspect it is woman-code for “I am not going to limit myself later by any of the answers I give now”.
Woman-code is amazing and it has infinite possibilities of ensuring that, whenever you think you have just begun to get a basic understand of it, there are new contexts, giving new meanings.
Take for example a seemingly simple food related question like “What flavour crisps would you like?” There is in my world a definite answer to it: Cheese and Onion.
My wife’s reply is, without exception, “anything will do”. Now you know instinctively that this is not the whole truth; it’s woman-code for “anything except prawn cocktail or beef”.
It is an answer designed to get you into a mild state of man-panic. Man-panic is the only possible response to woman-code. You know: the kind of feeling that you get when you are encouraged to embark on a shopping expedition to ‘get a couple of things’. Yes right! Now if that’s not code I don’t know what is. It is more than inevitable that another six things will be spoken loudly in your general direction as you leave the house. I am my own worst enemy in these situations: I always seem to make the same mistake of not writing a list, even though I know that I am doomed if I have to remember more than three items. To be honest I can manage up to a dozen items if I, in any sense, find them interesting. Give me two different types of batteries, four varieties of wine and half a dozen choices of chocolate and I am near perfect. Ask me for toilet roll, cleaning fluid and frozen food and I turn into a wreck. But that’s beside the point.
So it is, with foolish joy that I look towards this week’s shopping trip. Some things are as certain as running out of battery on your mobile when you have lots of credit. I know, for example, that in every clothes shop (female) I will make an immediate dash for the sales rail. I will hold up various half-priced items and wave them, across the store, at my wife in the hope of encouraging her away form the new, full priced product. She will, in return, roll her eyes towards the broken air-conditioning unit above her head at every one of my offerings, in a manner suggesting that she is normally proud of me; but not at this moment.
During the expedition I will also choose to hold her hand as we walk between shops, so that I can try to deflect her from any expensive establishments and towards anywhere selling food or electronic gadgets. On most occasions this will prove to be useless but I celebrate inwardly at every one of my victories, no matter how small.
After we have listened to in-store shopping music until we can stand it no more, we walk heavy-laden, with the worship of consumerism complete, towards the dark and hidden world of the car park. Once I have finally convinced the ticket machine to accept one of the few pound coins that remain in my pocket, we stand with all the other weary shoppers, gazing at the ocean of cars, trying to remember where we left the ours.
“Which section did we leave it in” she says, hoping that my memory has miraculously returned to the condition of my youth. “I will know it when I see it” I reply. Which in man-code translates as ‘two can play at that game’.
